Everyone was once the baby,
the crier, bereft of vocabulary.
Many of us have been the one saying,
“Hush. Hush, little baby.” But most of us in this belly
of metal, miles above the earth, forget our tiny selves screaming
at what we could not comprehend, and now
say, “Silence, Silence. I want silence.” We want
no trespass of borders, no interruptions of our singular selves
arcing over the globe, going places no baby should ever go,
where tomorrows are finite,
where it may be that none cry for us.
So cry, baby! Cry, baby! Cry!
Copyright © Rhonda Riley
This poem was written in response to the small thrill I sometimes feel when I hear the robust, innocent cry of a baby in the midst of an orderly crowd of adult (e.g., weddings, funerals, airplanes.) The song of Whitman, the howl of Ginsberg, and their ilk, writ small but no less irrepressible. But I must admit, I never felt such a thrill when I was the one on the plane holding the crying baby.