At the Gate
“Enlightenment,”
wrote one master,
“is an accident, though certain efforts make you accident-prone.”
Jane
Hirshfield
Inspiration
You look, though only once
or twice in your entire
lifetime as a mother
and say: I made
this,
and you hold the bones & the still
living
skin
&
thumb the knuckles, counting them counting on them
to
be always
warm
always present
always
gentle almost al
ways
(there
will be days weren’t there aren’t there
those
days)
&
you flatten the palm and want
to
read every pattern
every alphabet to divine
a
future. But you don’t. You don’t.
Instead
you
close your child’s hand over
yours
& bring the knuckles
to
your mouth & touch them
the way you used to
when
they were new
when
they were small
when
they were skinned
&
bleeding
&
you tasted the blood
you
made and you say
and you say
