It is Armistice day before
you lift me from your chest
having held on limpid-like until
birdsong’s faint first call, frail
after the rainfall my birth leaves.
Not long after water is poured over
my crown, a steel needle impregnates
the BCG vaccine into my blood
stream prior to Wassermann’s
syphilis test. Immunologists take
hold of my week-old self.
Into a bay window you carry me,
offer all my five pounds
to the curve of light as if the host
at consecration. Examine one
last time the shape you have half
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