Unsanitary

When they slit open his lashless lids,
his eyes rolled up at me like perfect marbles,
but instead of concentric circles
in white, blue, and black,
they were mottled and swirled
like the weather channel,
no pupil in sight.
At first I was entranced
by the beauty of my son,
but when the doctor
laid his hand on my arm,
I remembered to scream
for the monster I had created
as I suddenly realized not only that
this imperfect thing had been
living inside me, festering, eating up my life,
but also that I still had no idea what impurities
might be left in me, waiting to grow into
another dimpled pink teratism of a baby.
I thought that if I could just wash
everything he had touched,
I wouldn't have to look at him again
and I started scrubbing
because I can't communicate
without eye contact.