Child Of Genius - Poem by Lori Boulard
'I Love You, Baby, ' you recite mechanically,
never parting eyes from paper, the 'baby'
always snagging as if thinly veiling 'but..'.
Numbers are your children, rowing up
neatly for rollcall, orderly, stating
their Greek birth names proudly.
You speak to them a language
with its heart extracted; arguing infinity
while I count one on flower petal fingers.
Omegas have rooted where embraces
lack. A certain skin roughness marks
missed kisses. There is no measurable anger,
no theories of damage to defend.
Love can be proven scientifically.
It is the art of it that puzzles.
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