Human

Across the road stands a woman
wearing a child on her heart, her breast-

milk stained t-shirt plays
peek-a-boo with the infant’s

bobbing head, toothless grin
scattering in all directions. The baby

raises her hands like a conductor
readying an orchestra for the first bar.

All traffic is suspended in red
anticipation, eyes trained on the miniature

fingers which, having secured attention,
begin to ripple through the air,

a wordless being commanding the world
with her malcoordinated wave.

The response is instant: exuberant
smiles from parents and children, workworn

builders, the owner of the kebab shop
on the street corner– everyone

complies, waves back, because who can
resist this glorious dictatorship

of swaying palms, grasping air
like treasure, catching each smile

in babyfat creases and tossing it back
into the junction, where it is picked up

like an ancient melody and passed along.
An improvised performance

we can all understand – you are
human, and so am I.

Ella B. Winters (she/they) is a social worker, researcher, and writer, currently living in England. Her poetry often explores themes of identity, memory and belonging. She is working on her PhD.