Dolores Hayden
Around, In and Under Her Bed
Handblown blue-gray glass beads escape,
roll off a braid, lavender twine
I knotted for a little wrist.
Calico sticks to a block of pine,
six china kittens curl below
one of her boyfriend's white crew socks,
lipsticks, a black suede driving glove,
yellow silk scarf still in the box.
We form a family of keepers--
way at the back, under her bed
two sleeping streets of trees and houses
recline, replete with stories. Red
gambrels, scuffed trucks layer a midden
so many childhood years in the making.
This week she wears a plastic nametag,
checks off the courses she is taking.
As the class of 2010 lies down
in long-twins beds, I sift, excise,
I dig to rediscover two
blue beads the color of her eyes.
I underestimated ordinary happiness.
Ultrasound Photograph
--image at twelve weeks by sonic echo
Ten perfect toes. To her she's bound,
new life. And life can still astound.
But life is frail. Cautions redound,
contractions grip, resound, resound.
Feet high, she lies two weeks bed-bound.
Hour after hour, round and around
fears coil, fears stretch, fears chase, surround
each fetal heartbeat, small, small sound.
Miscarriage is a life unwound.
Each day her grief grows more profound,
she lives to grieve (what loss she's found),
bury a bright and wondrous wound,
inter the image underground,
girl child seen once on ultrasound.
Woad
Rogue cells rife,
you wear these marks
like a side of beef,
your hips blue-inked,
squared-up in grief,
your groin blue-inked,
cross-hair
for radiation,
there. And there.
I kiss your lips,
worry my hands
down your blue hips.
"My woad," you whisper.
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