Mirror Test

Again the boy cries himself hoarse
while we sing these hours just

before dawn. First the alphabet,
then “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,”

then “Lupang Hinirang,” the words
like foxes, like milk teeth. We can’t

hold him quiet yet. His body must,
they say, learn now about hunger,

about being alone. So we
hum and shhh into the yellow-

bruise of Sunday, these songs the shape
of our mouths in the dark, open

seas, and a brightness we have no
name for—