There is a world where your cells multiplied
like the atoms in the heart of a star, exploding
into eyes and heartbeats; where I would sing
impatient Twinkle-Twinkles long after midnight,
the bottle in your face; where you were baptized
with a name more permanent than Half-Inchling,
or Nearly-Was, or Three-Monther, wee Not-Thing,
Clot-Angel, Sean Angus or Schrödinger’s Child;

a world where you grew into your full potential
debating your right to picket angry commuters,
lipsticking napkins with your name and number;
where you grew into more than a clump of cells
and grunts overheard outside the bathroom door,
where it would have been legitimate to mourn.