7 Months of Touch Hunger
My grandson fingers his brain
He sings and listens to it but mainly clings
He prods and jabs it
His thoughts are drawn to where he is pointing
They desire his touch
And triumph with each poke and squeeze
But are ever needful of attention
His finger padded larvae crawl up
A new days branches
Until a butterfly of insight emerges
And alights upon an eager nidus of neurons
Hurry to wiggle the air, the hair
That cascades from his mother's head
The casing for another beautiful brain
that duly desires his grabbing and twisting
Insistent kneading for them both
To have their daily bread of love.
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