To Touch a Pacifier

To touch a pacifier is early object permanence.
I have faith and yet I prove it with my body
 
because why not? This is my role as purveyor
of all things within the cozy night rectangle—my
 
primary research. While asleep, three of my limbs
go wafting as if underwater, a starfish in still life,
 
so charged, it seems to swim as its image buzzes
on my mother’s phone screen—it is only the
 
rearranging of pixels under plexiglass, yet it
comforts her. Although now my one finger and
 
two toes bridge the gap to touch a pacifier, I am
told I will learn to understand that things do not
 
disappear when I can’t see them, that proximity
is not the only proof of existence. Yet, I must be
 
viewed relentlessly while asleep to prove my being
to two adults who say words like eventually. . .
 
as if forever is a concept they misplaced
when they happened upon temporary.