The way that raindrops on windows
find each other to slide down glass silently,
I want to feel a child inside of my body.
The way that the wind sweeps up garbage
into a little tornado before settling back
down a little farther away,
I want to hold a child
and carry them away.
A baby cannot run—
doesn’t want to, run away.
Conflicts are simple
and sometimes easily remedied by
talking about appreciation for all I’ve done
or about how much I love that little baby for all the joy that they give.
I can teach a baby how to behave
and listen well and to be stronger than I
and to ignore the pain of the world,
because they will be better than I.
They will love and be mischievous
but that’s okay.

But I don’t want a more complex