April 2020

I saw two wagons bracketed in a blackberry winter squall
Turning midnight into mad scramble
Torches guttering

Crossing the bald plain of two mountains
Ladled with cakes and beer
For the child in your belly
Not so gently waiting to be born.
The axle broke, the stern reefed on unseen stone,
Repaired by pig iron and blown branches slick with rain.
And I,
Become dream-minded, mid-wife to the expectation and the celebration.

I do not know where to hold such Nation
Dreams
So far quarantined from my wheelhouse of chip, transistor,
And modem
Awoke again to evidence of ancient storms
I’ve not spoken to you in months.
I’ve seen nothing of this seventh generation child rounding you now.
For all I know he is already flying free against your acrobat hip.
Easy borne and drinking from your breast now
I’ve not sipped beer, nor supped cakes since the Indians of Mardi Gras
Exchanged krewes for protest signs.
I’ve midwived nothing but death and disgust
For many moons now
of this black and blue masked spring turning into strawberry summer.