Premature

My daughter was born too soon, too
small, a valve in her heart flopped
like a broken wing
 
and sometimes her heart forgot
to beat. I watched her on her warming bed,
tubes everywhere, monitors glued
 
to her fishbone chest,
her breath quick, as if she'd run to me
from far away.
 
I curled her fingers around my one, studied
her small face: a brand new country.
I brought her home on a monitor,
 
a metal shoe box with blinking lights, learned
to press the wire leads
beneath her tiny nipple,
 
to love
the blinking green of her heart beat.
Once, the alarm's squeal
 
propelled me to her crib:
a loose lead and her wailing from the noise.
For weeks I lived inside that sound.
 
This year, she spits contempt and slams
her bedroom door.
I want to take her in my hands,
 
undo her, break her into parts
and reassemble them.
I can't offer her my breast,
 
as I would a baby, but part of me,
my hand held out
to the dark red shadows of her heart
 
I cannot see.
Did I forget? Forget to tell her
when they lifted her from me
 
she was a starfish, arms and legs splayed out,
how frightened I was
of her small heart.