But looka this thing for me, though. This child
born and named for daybreak. This lithe wire
testing her spark but wanting, still, at 17
to nuzzle her mother’s neck, be up onderneat’
an armpit. This creature, beyond gazelle,
fixing to fold her overflowing self
into the plumped cushion of a lap.
“Put on my socks for me, Mumma, please!”
Infant-like plea (at odds with the proffered size nine—
same as mine!) in lieu of demand for a hug.
Any mother, half grudging, might comply.
We grab our chances to connect
any which way, these days. “These days...
I do the same for your grandmother,”
is what I say, and for a second, eyes saucer
beyond a gazelle’s—but do not spill. Instead: a shrug
that brims with teenage-itis and sighs
as the dri-fit snugs over toes and heel,
heel and toes—and there, right there is the rub!
Who will do? Who. Will. Do
the same for these slowing bones?
Will she? And who for her? And hers
and they and them and theirs?
But looka this thing
we inherit, though.
—