For J

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.