Don’t you know where babies come from?
Asks the man who learns I’m expecting my third.
I don’t. I don’t know where babies come from
I don’t know where this chocolate in my hand
came from. What little fingers plucked the bean?
What tree was cut to unblock the sun for my sweet?
I don’t know what fire’s ash I’m breathing,
I don’t know if my body carries a virus
if I’ve killed the old lady next door by
bringing her bread with my bare hands.
I don’t know where this baby came from,
I don’t know how life could possibly
strain against my skin, turning
upside down, a faith in the closed dark
that there is a right way
to come out of this.
— from Juniper Volume 5, Issue 3