Quiescence

All who have stood in a mother’s hand are sure to die because they were born
—Zhai Yongming

Between us bobs the baby, solemn in her infant wet suit.

The pool is the only place where

screaming does not indicate terror.

The neighbor’s pansy beds—O to lie down in those beds

and doze. Greener than grass, says Sappho,

originator of envy.

My sleep is pollinated by the baby’s wails: dreams

sprouting voices in peril. Mind sped up and emaciated

like a greyhound

in the track. The end of growth is death.

The painting begins with a scribble. Or is a scribble

the finishing touch?

Call your plants by their names, 10,000 words a day.

We feed, we weed, we read her books about owls.

What am I minding

but stillness? What have I grown except loss?

Source: PoetryNow (2019)