In the beginning

we are younger. In years, at least.
In a room
with our knees pulled in,
the carpeting coarse beneath our calves.
It is the first day of kindergarten.
Everything is fresh and gleaming,
color without contour.
I watch your mouth
crease and close around foreign sounds.
“O” for orange and octopus
and October.
We break bread at twelve.
Your pale hands 
hug a carton of milk.
By two, I have heard you sing
and cried beside you as you bled
through a papercut. 
In the beginning,                                                  
you stare as I cradle your
red-tipped thumb
against my tongue.
Crayons and iron and rain.