Burrow

 

The woman and her baby swim in darkness,
three in the morning,
densest part of night.
The child’s caramel head curves away from her,
their elbows glance each other.
He exhales a bath of breath, he twitches,
he smiles a half-idiot
closed-lidded smile, and settles.
She murmurs and dozes.

The woman dreams of roses, the baby of bees;
she plummets down waterfalls,
he soaks in a puddle.
Her bear reappears, great omen;
he cuddles in a cave.
In an airplane she skids on an ice-crusted runway:
he hurtles through dark space
and recalls his old confines,
he shakes awake
to perceive her eyes dimly, two moons.

She gathers him back to her,
belly to belly,
warm core.
He grasps her nipple again, their continuing umbilicus.
His warm paws secure what he seeks, they drift off.

She is a walrus,
he a sleek fish.
Night is the dark sea they slip through.

 

Read more poems

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *