My youngest child does not eat.
We used to feed her with syringes of breast milk,
a gloved finger in her mouth.
At four months, she decided to dabble
in breastfeeding.
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At synagogue for Rosh Hashanah,
she nursed under my tallit,
her gulps awkward and precious.
My oldest child danced in the aisles,
swift and agile, creating
boundaries for the world around.
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Are they conversing with G!d?
Here we are!
they say.
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She stopped nursing    for good
before the blast of the last shofar.
We went home to eat dinner,
my wife remarking,
I’ll give her a bottle.
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My daughter used to get sick every day,
her body rejecting the PediaSure.
Now we feed her with feigned disinterest
as if she will drink more,
if ignored.
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My daughter, liminal
at four months,
waiting for test results,
until the geneticist found
her mosaic.
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These children are beloved.
My daughter gently kisses
my son’s forehead at bedtime,
pushing bangs off his smooth, dry forehead.
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When she cries,
he holds her on his lap,
encircling her body with his arms.
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Escaping the dinner table,
they grasp hands. A shriek,
joyful and rebellious.
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My son travels by handstands and cartwheels.
He scampers up furniture like a cat,
or is it Spiderman?
He leans on my back
as I hook up his sister’s feeds,
tubing hanging from her pajama shirt.
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She is bright and solid in my arms.
My son balances
on the edge of her crib, beaming
as his arms reach toward the ceiling.
