Solstice
My mother was born
on the first day of summer, 1948.
Her mother labored alone.
Ivy flared against the window
shot through with lemon light.
That night, the moon was full
as it is tonight. In the waiting room,
her father sat in his gray clothes
holding his son, Raphael,
the angel. When the moon
dropped, the nurse let them in.
My mother’s eyes were root black,
still adjusting to the light.
Raphael named her Black-Eyed Susan.
This was the beginning. Later,
the steady unraveling of a family—
the way a girl’s hair unbraids in her sleep,
end of summer, her pillow damp.
Tonight I’m not interested
in that story. My hair is down.
Summer’s just begun. I want
only this: to see my mother born.
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