& the spinning baby mobile slows down,
its stuffed elephants unaware that they are

elephants. My mother opens the window to let
                                                                                            September inside, lifts me out of the new arms

of the crib and into her own. She swaddles me
closer to her chest knowing that her name,

scrawled on the sole of my newborn foot in black
                                                                                            marker by the nurse, is already fading. She turns

on the news and watches a man dangle his head
out of one of the burning tower’s windows.

My mother presses her thumb onto the mole beside
                                                                                            my lips—as if to snuff out the fire. She kisses

my forehead, still flushed from my bath,
to remind herself that my warmth is so far

away from the man’s. She shuts the television off
                                                                                            and studies the way her teacup on the bedside table

settles into the indentation of its saucer.
Glances down at me nestled into her.