Two

As you find language, I learn the depths
of your memory. Tortillas in the shopping cart
are renamed ‘moon;’ the fencepost where I tied
the dog months ago and gave him water while you
played on the swings- today, leaving the park,
you point and say ‘Seeley water.’ Your joy

comes sudden, as does frustration. One minute
you are me, and I understand each inch of you…
the next you are someone I may never, completely
know. “Mama, train coming,” you tell me
solemnly, although there’s been no train in the valley
for weeks. Still we walk out to check the tracks.




















You end the day stained with raspberries, blond
hair wisped in all directions, new scratches
on your knees – your exact weight and smell
as I carry your against me toward your bed
is something I have carried all my life.