In the Neonatal ICU

From the ceiling a drizzle of milky light
Descends past dials and gages to the shine
Of sterile glossy tanks. In each confined,
A newborn, small as a squirrel, whose fate
It was to suffer exile before its date.
Inside one, my long-awaited, curled and lean,
Shuddering to live; wires, needles; good clean
Science saving the moonwrecked astronaut.
Leaving the unit, the Devil caught my wrist:
You needn't come here, professionals will see
To him. My outrage singed his matted hair
And leads me now to Thee with one request:
A boon Your Son, I think, would grant: Three
Blows with a mallet, and then we'll call it square.

Plainsongs. (26)1: 19.