Monday, August 20, 2012

An eventual delight

Now my womb closes, like
a lily at dusk, now
I look to the sky, and
see her, our spirit baby, stealing
away, our girl who may never be, I
see her stealing away. My sister
of sisters, my daughter,
I drove across the bridge this morning,
and saw on a sister-bridge, a train lumbering,
her boxcars rusted so beautifully.
I imagined, I hoped, there were oranges
inside, their sunshine
an eventual delight
to the soft mouths of thousands.
I glanced
at the riverbank below, green and
musky, the silted leaves, and
I knew, I knew how
Moses’ mother surely wept
with faith fragile as the cereus
that blooms only one day, as she
laid her baby in the reeds.