a small savage

“No, no, no, no, noooo…” your tiny voice cries softly.

I know, I know, I am scary, It’s hardly morning, I’m here to look at your belly, at your drain, I’m here to press on your belly, and I know that anguished squeal is all that you can muster right now.

“You’re such a big girl, “ remarks mom

“You’re doing so good,” I assure you,

We lift the tiny blanket, it can’t be bigger than the surface area of my chest split open. It’s a small blanket.

We place it just above your pelvis, hugging your tiny hips that look like the kind of fragile china my mom would never let me touch growing up.

“You’re such a big girl!” whispers your aunt from the corner of the room.

Your tiny hands tremble and lift the hem of your dress up to your chest

The wound across your abdomen, you wear it like a warrior’s scar, a tiny savage that tussled with some one fingered bengal tiger, and won.

Your body shakes, I know, I am scaring you, but you are a proud little warrior. This time you didn’t cry. This time you lifted your dress to show us your wound all by yourself.

Your perfect smile breaks out, even as tears spill down your face.

Your dad looks at me, “She’s so brave, she hadn’t done that before”

“She is.”

His eyes are filled up with tears, they sit in those craters and well up and sloppily sink through his beard.

Your tiny fists ball up the edges of your dress, your holding up against your perfect face, there’s not a single hair on your perfect head is there? Your fists are tight and angry like a brawler’s, you tiny tempest. Every morning I see you something wakes up, something that was buried, something fierce responds to your ferocity, something hard and hot and full of light, burns through the debris, it seems to radiate a hot anger and love at once, it’s that unbridled courage in your delicate fingers that pushed us away the first time we met.

You are my courageous little queen, a warrior princess. I can’t wait to say goodbye, and never see you here again.