It’s hard to remember that you’re a person and not a doll,
that behind those olive eyes is a soul breathing freely,
plethoras of want and need and hope waiting steadily.
They say babies your age don’t have such ambitions,
but we know so little about the brain it’s folly to conjecture,
presumptuous to assume growth seen through MRIs
equate to “thought,” “desire,” or “consciousness,”
words we know the meaning of but not the gravity of.
Your cries should be satisfied by my limited abilities,
and when feeding, cleaning, and sleeping don’t suffice,
all we have is comfort, an idea wholly untouchable,
a suggestion sufficient in quieting you to peaceful sleep.