no such thing as a mother-
to-be. For truly
each unruly curve
in her light-
ly mussed hair,
and every hard-earned
crease in her rightly
rumpled shirt
would seem to create
its own brief,
arcane world—
each one distinctly
present, and yet starkly
inaccessible;
each one imperceptible,
and yet obvious,
gargantuan.
And all of these artful,
furtive planets, spinning away
as she bustles on past,
are crying all at once,
with the poise
of a chorus
(in a voice I can't
name, but can
still hear, no question)
in their desperate,
definite, and
paralyzing need of her
ceaseless
and singular
protection.
