The Wheels on the Bus "The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round..."
The song dribbled over her lips and slid over the many age spots on her chin, past the deep, wrinkled recesses of her neck, and landed gently in the melting slush at her feet.
"What did you say, Mother?"
Miranda turned her head a slight fraction to the left, gazing at her daughter out of the corner of one bright eye. There's too much of her father in her, she decided. Yes, the same stubborn cleft in their jaw, the same challenging tilt of the head, the same way they sat with their feet barely touching the ground. She was tempted for a moment to reach out and stroke the smooth grey fabric of Emily's suit, in such contrast to the cracked, tired bench beneath
FiveBundlings of nerves, cells, blood, flesh,
small miracles, those hands of yours,
All the more miraculous because they
lay in mine, twining loosely, filling
my empty chest with bright bubbles
Purer than all the marble in the Taj Majal,
this heart of mine-
the heart that is yours alone.
Do our loose-knit fingers fill you with the same luminescence,
the same purity?
Our eyes meet, and:
don't count your babiesdont count your babies before theyre born
the old mother says.
time has worn crags and cliffs into the furrows of her face
her body rolls jaggedly like a canyon
groaning patience filters through her wind-voice
again and again, up and down, gleaming, sparkling
the needle punches through tender fabric
frayed holes a channel
for sweet, womanly trails of mending and making
this is her life
five hundred clouds pass
before the children come