Birth
The chant pulls rivers down
my face. I say MA, I sing mother.
I am that; I am not that.
Time escapes. Photographs
turn in a flip book, fanning memory:
What happened to the baby?
His man hands reach for mine,
fingers once no larger than a rosemary needle.
This plant of mine/not mine
calls to me in the deepest voice,
voice of river rocks. I am
soul struck. When did he arrive?
Did I hold open the door?
No, I was the door.
I was the door.
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