March Children
Her head nestled in the palm of my hand
not so long ago,
little lips tugged my breast,
fingers pink as birthday candles
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Sleeping on Wood
The blue ice is melting
off the high ridge,
draining down through the trees.
The blade of rock darkens in the sun.
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Pieta
Lying on my mother’s bed
listening to tropical rain skitter
across a mottled screen,
I hold my daughter, sprawled in sleep,
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Properties of Water
In the dark,
a cat will fly on rain-slicked blacktop
like a bat,
hydroplaning, flicking malevolence sideways
out of fluorescent eyes.
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