My mind was set to chirp
whenever it was
crossed by thought.

It never shut up.

Then I applied
brown liquor
and all the chatter
smoothed itself out

into a warble
I could stand to hear.

Brown liquor,
tamer of birds.

My chest was set to holler
whenever the current certain someone
crossed my mind.
I got no sleep.

Then I applied
brown liquor
to my core
and boy, did the shouting
settle down.  Boy,
did I sleep.

Brown liquor,
tamer of lions.

Brown liquor,
should have had you
all along and put you
where my problems are
from the first.

You do the trick
like nobody’s business,
and that’s nobody’s business.

Hear how quiet it is now?
That’s the way I always wanted it.
What I used to think and feel — damn
all that chirping and ruckus
and give me the brown liquor
to lie on the noise
like a dead blanket
that won’t keep me warm,

but what it does do,
I prefer.

Fill your fist
with tears
before you beat the creature
who wounded this baby
into that tortured sleep;

make a club of the rage and grief,
make a membership
of the circle of care, a posse
of everyone you know
to make fists to sling
against that thing
who beat this child
into labored inhale
and sharp exhale
drawn through a machine.

Time enough for the other cheek
when you turn your head back
to loving the tiny one back into this life —

today, make a fist of the love
and sling a fist at the monster
who cowers and wonders
at what’s been unleashed here:

the low growl of the mother
waiting in her blood
for the chance to smash
and rend, the ferocity
of a family yearning
for the baby to awaken
and learn what storms
were harnessed for him
as he slept.