When I held him he was small—
somewhere between the size
of a cell and a baobab tree—
and I was myself gigantic
as the atmosphere of a mid-sized
planet covered in water and lava.

He needed protection
for nine months or 900 years.
So I was told by my ancestors,
who are older even than I and who
have never been wrong,
though they neglected to explain
how to keep him from harm.

Rocking was my first approach.
When I sang the ancient songs
I felt encouraged though I knew
they never really work. Luck
is what it all comes down to,
and when I held him I realized
that would never be enough.

Look at me—big as I am,
my arms, my world, my life
uncontrollably empty.
For the brief time I held him,
I had purpose. When he was small.

Painting by George Frederic Watts (1817-1904)