Iron Baby

After Antony Gormley

Sleeping, or not crying, 
life-size newborn
cast from the artist’s daughter, 
six days old.

Comfort in fist to mouth,
her head laid on concrete
in full-blooded dream.

Who could leave a baby
alone, naked,
who could walk past?

I want to kiss her cheek,
taste the blood and salt,
the tang of where she passed.

Gathering, what does she gather?
Body curled,
knees touching arms —

let me hold her,
too heavy to bear,
gobbet, clove, kernel, bomb —

none of these,
a baby cast in solid iron,
her fist at her mouth, o comfort.

Light falls almost-green upon her back,
baby/non-baby 
softly, softly, 
we open our arms.