Oh no, oh no
Alison is on the phone.
Who will pour milk
wash dishes braid hair.
Motherhood becalmed
and deafened by
another universe
that half steals its changeling
creator standing between
sorting underwear and wiping tables
bound by sound and conversation
to the one thread unsevered
from childhood with its
radiating spider's web
of interests bound like flies
still struggling, escaped
or spoiled in their silk, waiting
undevoured
Alien as the chaos that predates creation
to the beings that minted my motherhood.
One day they might meet me there. One day
if I can cast it all wide on the sky. If it is big enough.
At least it's possible. Dreams that die in one brain cast
no shadows.
If it's there. If they look. They might just catch
my resonance.
How many are so privileged to leave a speaking ghost?
But I forgive them now if
they are rendered deaf
and becalmed in the effort
by their own siren creations. And
hope they will forgive me if
I tug at their sleeves in my
old age, all unaware
and cry my own rendition of
Oh no, oh no
Alison is on the phone.
