POEM
I am remembering the weight of my child in my arms
little and
heavy
and perfect.
I am remembering the length of her eyelashes,
resting against her cheek as she sleeps.
I am imagining the sound of her voice first thing in the morning
as she tells me of her dreams.
I am ecthing the image into my mind
of the way she holds her hand up to a ray of sunlight
wonderously appearing to be catching something more magical
than dust motes.
I don’t want to forget.
AND
The hills of this desert and mounds
voluptuous complications of breast and hip
curves of thighs that could only be the forms of women
burried under sand and rock and earth
elements worn like dresses and shawls, like naked skin
under the light of the moon and sun
giant in proportions, a great nation of beings
they have chosen their place to finally sigh.
