(for Miranda Lee Reality Torn)

I’ve never quite gotten the hang of babies or French; especially with the accent. But here we are, us three, your mama, me and Cynthia, singing to you.

Your first Chelsea gallery installation. A video of a baby’s hands, holding sapphires and rubies, a lullaby in the background. Tongues crawl like snails off to the side. You look in awe. Two weeks old, and you’re focused.

Your father does the two step to calm your tears. He hands me to you, mouth agape, shitting like a heater. Your head, a tennis ball in my palm. You are the lightness of a pen.

Your mama tells us tales of stitches and hallucinations. The two ladies are singers. They know all the words. I only know the tune. I remember that. But like I told you, I never quite got the hang of French and babies.

Your mama says I am good with you.

Listening to you coo. I don’t believe her when I sing.

Faire a Jacque. Faire a Jacque.
Dor me voo. Dor me voo.
Blah blah blah blah blah blah.
Blah blah blah blah blah blah..
Bing bom boom. Bing bom boom.