A First Verse for Kate
I.
So to speak, I swim but no scales shine
my singular skin. No fish, I do not flounder
or perch, perhaps a blithe bird in air,
one buoyant being. But carefully cradled,
I, curled ripe, and rooted red, enclosed
in close. Helixes joining hands, agile acrobatics
string each strong surge to toss, the top and reach
of stretch-span signals the months’ makings:
Requisite received, straight segue to the push-part.
Small, even earth-rotations later lying
caught and couched, (w)rapt warm,
again enclosed in close.
II.
the original
two (maman et père)
divided into
three
more and
the first
one
to
subdivide was
he with whom I share
near enough,
perhaps
to color (dark) her hair
the lip-peak
shape. near
enough,
perhaps. chance, there.
the familiar arithmetic,
in constancy, has altered:
us. shared supply
has circled further, sooner
than we’d expected,
my elder brings
the youngest,
foreign object, essentially
recognizable.
III.
for her the cycles roll on, continue, and are not
counted or charted (bright shifts with dark, or hungers
fed)
while I mark an hour, holding her watching her sleep
and the two weeks,
two days
she’s been. portion off a neat one-third of one night
with her in the crib next small stirrings catching at
where I hover above sleep waiting
to wake and change and feed. regular on the three hour toll.
the next night there is much
to miss: small weight and new-
niece scent, her given shallow indent,
murmurings, mutual, content.
IV.
this is why my mother called 8 a.m. in tears, something
that will affect the whole family, something we
can never change. will have to live with. I
waiting
to have next life ripped out.
while on the way out the door to work, and hear
no one has died. surprise: she, come
September.
Originally Published: Means of Access, Fall 2002