Renaming the Newborn

While wombside, your name was the color of spun glass,
blue bottles in the kitchen window, the color of milled soap,
a delicacy. Push prized, your name twisted
on the operating room floor, that mutation became selfish,
mine, earthy as a blackberry nestled against
mushrooms on a dinnerplate,
your being a building of postnomadic earth.
Practice and fumble, lines against the table,
your rose hips, your smell as sweet.