that’s the hospital where my child was born
and my mother died, I say
as if these things just happened
like I didn’t have a hand in either
like both of them weren’t there for the other’s
and my own face wasn’t the moaning filling
in this brutal sandwich.

the nurses were better the first time
supplying me with popsicles and pep talks
though death was always hovering
in the back, like someone else’s misguided guest
they don’t really talk about that statistic
like in the old days –
like mom was born on christmas day at home
in a war, when a thousand things could have gone wrong
but didn’t, giving her 72 more christmases with cherry cake.

but then we come from strong stock, she always said
think of Aunt Phyllis as a premie in a shoebox by the stove
like her extra presents
but I almost didn’t make it, they tell me – think of that
this place beside the river would forever for my child
be her start and her mom’s end,
inside of just mine, her grandma’s
we don’t get to choose these things

still, if I could
I’d have sung more songs in both their ears
when their foreheads were mine to stroke
listened by this river to the secrets that would make me
finally believe in the reality of time
this fleeting

sometimes I forget to just listen.
I close my eyes 
watch the highway
swing its lasso at my window 
the night gremlins
wring out their last limericks 
and hang them on its line.
the highway complies,
but oh, the frogs 
the errant airplane
clamor like siblings – listen! listen! 
and the wall beside inside offers
my home’s soft bellows
such delicacies! delights 
to tempt my worry
but there’s a thought 
and here’s me – 
again in the center 
riding my bullshit one handed 
when I could be listening – listen! 
who cares if I glisten? 
hear the trees stretch
ancestors yawn
you’re bigger than this 
they guess, but listen!
strain to clasp the river mud
soothe your bones, lover love
yes, yes
see it is actually about me
but it’s not
knotted in the circlet of car horn noses
and the green not yet roses
just just listen 
pluck the thoughts like weeds the tendrils
curling underfoot the tendons
pull that tightrope pull it 
erase that sweater as you knit it
no – listen,
listen

I know this is a mixed metaphor
but let’s just pretend I’m actually putting a bookmark here,
like that shiny kind you get at the checkout at Barnes and Noble
when you feel like your gift isn’t quite enough
even though we all know nobody really uses them (do they?)
but let’s say I’m putting that bookmark literally on the ground, 
in the crossroads
and we’ll go down that path soon enough
but here, in this moment, tell me first, I beg you:
what is your other favorite euphoria?
not the polite one you reserve for first meetings,
which is certainly interesting too, and
if you prefer, we can go there
hence the bookmark – look it’s got a kitten on it
though I’m afraid it may have landed in the mud
its yellow yarn tail already browning as it sinks
I suspect this spot is fairly well trodden
and that puddle may not be just rain water
but self-doubt and maybe some accidental sweat or piss
no, I’m trying to tell you without really saying, 
having a collection of slimy bookmarks myself
that I’m ok with it, whatever it is
um,
no really 
your gift is 
enough

my child, remember
when you spent these breezy summer days
longing for laziness, unscheduled hours
stretching before your friends like endless steamy sidewalks,
the whoosh of freedom blowing through their bicycle hair

while yours grew matted with camp mud and string,
shaded in supervised tree forts, sweaty with games
you learned canoeing and cave stories,
caught up on the memes in September

because I had to work, and mourn
as you now work, and wait
the seed helicopters spinning
for both of us

(I just came across this poem in an old journal, written on October 28, 2002, when my child was only two months old. Edited slightly but still smiling at how prophetic this really became.)

your first laugh –
a definite giggle in your sleep
much like your cry
but smaller, smiling.

such a fine line between the two –
one bursting out at birth
an instinctual will to live.

the other, weeks later,
a tiny gurgle –
the inevitable result
of living

These two trunks
will grow on anyway
having watched my child dance
in sparkling summer sprinkler drops
breathed calm into my storms
as I swung raging, aging –
I’ll never know what they thought
of the peonies I neglected
the thyme forgot,
now over violets iced
they stand sentinel yet
as my little dog already pulls me on
past sentiment, squirrel searchings.
The future will not pause for us.

But I remember how they healed me
and I weep for what I could not give them
these two hands
will build on anyway, but
bare on the rough bark
they are misty ghosts to these giants

And the sky between their leafless looming
answers my hot face
with snow

there are universes of delights
contained in your eyes
dancing along those lips
smirking cautiously
whole worlds in your words
expanding

I come home at the end of the day
and the kid goes “mama?”
jokingly, emphasis on the second “ma”
she doesn’t really call me that anymore
like she once did
but still.

my baby bird
my heart

this message was deleted
it hung in the air like snow
for just a moment
its rainbow of potential
sparkling with nuance
read, considered
replied to even, and then –
the icy wind of doubt
sliced through again
falling
it said,

Re:

it’s just this morning
of sneaky warm hands
under blankets
that soft sweet space
at the nape of his neck

coffee with heavy cream
congealing like these covers
weighing us down
to face the winter winds