Child of the Galaxy

A blueberry-sized child
hides in my gut, forming
its talents and flaws,
to be revealed in years

to come. It takes refuge
benath my fat and organs,
protected from the world that
is not me. My body, its galaxy.

Beyond my skin lie the
mysteries of the universe,
all the things not seen.
If it could, it would send a

Hubble telescope to capture
my spleen. Its alien beauty
would impress even the least
adventrous fetus. In its watery home,

the child is king. The atmosphere
is evolved precisely to its
needs, fostering it until it
reaches a higher plane of being.

But when he opens his eyes in
his new world, nothing will be
suitable or right — just static
and light and unending needs.

Be brave, dear child, you
will learn to love this new
world in a way you cannot
possibly see, but you will

never be king. You will be
but one of billions teeming,
crying, feeling. Be kind,
dear baby, this you will need.

You are loved, dear one,
and will always be. Know
this, my heart, and you will
have all you need.