They took the baby from its mother
down the frigid hall of glaring lights
the beeping corridor washed out
and sterilized by white coat aliens.

Time out of mind they probed her
about passing secret diseases.
You have my blood, she said, test it
again – they sampled fluid and bone

looking for a problem to solve 
and finding none, kept looking while
she sang hymns in the baby’s ear
to block the noise and held him

to block the cold until finally a new doctor
came to supervise the NICU and said why
is this healthy baby here? She threw off
the hazmat suit, left it in shreds

by the plastic crib and brought home 
her baby in a car seat and her anger
inside her chest, in a fireproof box 
roughly the shape of a teaching hospital.

–

Mountains are made of time
and trial. Slabs of rock pushing
against each other, refusing to break.
Not all mountains become volcanoes

but these days if someone says they
know better what’s best for her own child
she remembers that she is rock solid,
opens her chest, and fans the flame.