In Her Infancy

Unclipped fingernails
embed themselves into the softest place in my neck
instinctively.

Sour milk vomit
rolls down my shirt, having missed the burp cloth
by inches.

Contentedly seated
securely on my lap, she cries or laughs as warm wetness
bathes my leg.

Toothless screams
shatter my eardrums, ceaseless and primal, they
hurt my eyeballs.

Gasps and sobs
melt into yawns as eyes droop and close and are rubbed
by tiny fists.

Unsurpassed joy,
though scratched, stained, dampened, sour, and pained...
contentment.