Today, Your Baby is the Size of A


I sleep all day in the fog of rain,
glued to the windows, glazing the glass,

collect what is out of place and put it back—
snow boots, fur-lined, and last night’s socks.

Today you’re an orange seed, tomorrow
a pineapple. My clove bud, my spice.

I formed a crust into a crown for you,
made a bright and happy milk.

More than a poppy seed on the breakfast table,
scattered from the center of a crepe-petaled stem,

you are a match struck in the darkness. 
Sturdy and taking form, hard and unfurling. 

Today a raspberry, 
tomorrow a lime.


Barbara Varanka's poems have appeared in The Twin Bill, Booth, Moon City Review, and elsewhere. She works as a business analyst and lives in Kansas City.