The Youths
we’re all zombies.
only some of us know it.
it's an odd topic for small talk, I guess,
but I can’t stop thinking
how the sweetest smell on earth
comes from the skulls
of freshly born—
that warm cradle-crease
where the bone hasn’t decided yet
to harden into identity.
they say the intoxicating scent
of babies is nothing more than
the untethered undulation
of their new brains pulsating
under cranial sutures—
they stay un-fused until age two,
still pliable enough to dream
us all into a softer reality.
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