Poetry

Your dad says proudly that he did design you himself
and your eyes, nose and mouth are genetically from him.
Your mother says that she is your own breeding machine,
the paediatrician says that you may go home tomorrow
and it is much more than just a maybe.
 
I am astounded by you small long body
where you are laying in a glass box with a blue light
and we would not want it any different
where you are growing at the speed of wind
and your eyes are covered by minutely small sunglasses
against the sharp light that is blinding you
and your grandmother wants to pull you much closer.
 
Fragile and brittle you lay and wait
where the machine is doing its work to the following day.