You began as head and heart.

Your head was in my heart. My heart was in your hands.

Your hands clenched in two tiny fists.

Your toes poked through blanket holes, and we fell in love again.

She creeps into your room each night to feel you breathe.

Gently presses her palm to your chest.

Your chest rises and falls, and she falls in love again.

We step in tune and out of line.

On my back is the stamped hand print of the time she pushed me up the hill.

My belly swollen with her holding the steady rhythm of your growing spine.

She smiles like she’s swallowed a rainbow.

Her skin glowing red, purple and yellow when the door latch clicks open to you

laying in your crib, a fresh scratch on your cheeks like you’re Wolverine,

and we’ve birthed a superhero.

From your peach fuzz skin to your tree frog limbs,

I cling to you and her with my palms gripped at the tip top of the rainbow’s arch

and swing like an Olympic gymnast.

But if I’m no Olympian and she’s no gymnast

at least we’ve birthed a superhero.