The pinprick tacked into your smooth nostril blinds me, like earrings on a baby.
So does the shine of your skin and hair.
You speak to your toddler son as though he were a disrespectful, cross adult.
You coo to the infant daughter you hold in a fleece receiving blanket.
The cross words will come later, from the boy who now studies you.
Who tries to help you carry the basket made heavy with trans-fat and fried salt.
Whose arm you wrench when, without warning, you swing your hips and the baby as counterweights to heave the basket to the checker.
The boy reaches up to help.
You smack his hand.
Why? Don’t you know you are perfect?