Elegy for Bennett’s Baby Fat
The fat sausage feet I’ve snacked on
for months help you flee from my nibbles.
You say, Don’t get me and run circles
around our ottoman, dripping
baby fat from your thighs and giggles
from your mouth. I fattened that face
with milk from my breasts, and now
it’s been swallowed up by a boy
I don’t recognize. I scoop you up
and chomp on thinning forearms
that used to double over like rubber
bands encircled your wrists.
You say, Eat food, Mama,
and wriggle from my grasp
the same way the boy sneaks out
from the baby you used to be.