Newborn

by Ayesha Asad, on empathy

I let him slip under

the sleeping

headlights, fur light-

swept & unshorn. Or

rather: she did, parking

the car at an angle

while the kids

marveled in

the backseat. I remember

their knees knocking
like lanterns

clicking—like the light

swooping down in

unruly clusters while he posed,

unposed as only a cat

can be in

the dark & he waited,

waited for us to

finish our star-

gazing at

him, harmonic in a night

flushed by cell phone flash-

light & new

families springing

out like limbs

forming.

& the night

was still sweltering,

still Texas hot with

moths draped around

every street-

lamp but in the car,

we leaned

toward each other as

if our body could drown

out heat. As if

we had just stepped

into a lake & the kids

were running down

from the hot

sand, palms full

of seashells.