the school-mothers passed you
arm to arm, chest to chest; you nestled against
breasts that have nursed countless other babies,
they gasped over your perfect hair,
perfect skin,
perfect fingers,
they pressed their noses against your head
and breathed in a memory,
a singular sweet idea—
“Baby Smell,” they each nodded in turn,
eyes distant and drunk.
You were generic,
their Every Baby,
fresh and pristine as from a magazine ad
or a meticulous scrapbook
with obsessed, razor-sharp corners,
so I took you home
and unwrapped you from your
package, edge by edge
and examined your
hair,
skin,
fingers,
perfect except

atop a head dusted with fine dark strands
swirls a thick manly pile.
and on the bridge of your nose is
an isosceles triangle smudge
that won’t come off.
and your nails are forever shedding
tiny ivory curling ribbons.

it is these details
that disqualify you from the magazines;
it is these details
that make you more than an idea;
instead, uniquely my beloved.