Anna's face turns upstream
toward the source, feeding
from Kate's breast. I'm faced
that way too sitting beside them
in the half-dark at half-past
something. Faced toward Creation's
good profile, if it has one.
And I'm feeding too, off the night-
light's inventions: baby rattles
turn to swans on the ceiling,
crib-bars become angelfish
on the walls. Other nights,
I've turned away to eye
baby-mobiles dangling above me
like lures from the past, brazen
faces, garters scattered by a bed, unadult-
erated play. Gone in time's
wayward stream. Almost
retrievable. What turns me back... Read more