Infants

by Eva Christensen

The purest and most volatile form of life.

Their lives are in them.

All of it!

Compressed.

So rich it hurts.

Color so saturated they look like blood.

All of them.

Purple blood, green blood.

In babies!

You come away with yellow finger tips,

orange lips, blue eyes.

It stains and you're glad.

The baby grins, it's illuminated soul seeping out.

What are these things?

Are they even safe?

Probably not.

They are not what you think.

They are more.

More than we'll ever know from here.

But we knew once.

If only we could go back to our days of color.

(I just have to brag and share one of my sister's fabulous poems. This is my favorite! The photo is of Nora Holmes)