At the Gate

 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