You should see her

smile, the one that melts a grown man into helpless acquiescence,

framed by the baby nose that Grandpa is trying to teach her to find

and eyes more darling than those of a kitten

gently touching the cheek of a sleeping human.

And if only you could know how her flower petal ear feels

and touch the skin beside which silk would be like sandpaper,

and see her playing with the ball that's almost as big as she is, and her

delight in being the first person

in the history of the world

to hear a dove breaking the morning silence

or being the first person to ever see

a red tropical flower scalding the air, or if you could hold her uncertain hand

as we make the epic, Alexandrine journey

up to the very top of the driveway to see the neighbors' frantically welcoming dogs,

then you would understand why I want to put her in a huge velvet-lined box

with the interior painted in sunshine and occupied only by her teddy bears, her fenced in

friends, the nice neighbors, the seven of us, and friends that I trust.

And you would see why on the outside of the box I would place

Roman spikes

and razor wire

and hair-triggered machine guns

and flamethrowers ready to bellow out Inferno

so that Tamerlane himself

would cringe with fear.