You’ve carried the antique, silk threads of pink
and ivory, inside from the back yard. It’s raining.
In the morning, springs sag when you sink
down, a silhouette of eyelash flashing.
Towards some uncertainty, you turn your face.
At one time I carried you from room to room like an egg.
I lean forward now to listen for your growing voice
while you pull a wool sock up your leg.
Some of us starving souls must be taught how to eat.
I don’t always know, kneeling down at your feet,
what I’ve lost, what I need, as I get older.
Your hand on my arm becomes more familiar,
how you bend like a river when you reach for the shoe,
how you rise, grateful, when I hand it to you.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.
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