When my daughter was not yet
three, and we were still
one, my body her solace. She knew
no one religious, had heard
no sermon beyond the hermit thrush’s
evening trill. Before she tasted
loss. When she walked away
and ran back, laughing
hungry. When sleep weighted
her lids, feathered lashes
fluttered as she nursed.
When she paused to say
a child is god, and then
a moment later, a mama
is god. When she swallowed light,
stayed lucid and quiet, after I asked
what god might mean. In that lucent stillness
I rooted, I waited. When years of storms
clouded our rooms. When she left
for a distant city. Today
when she calls, her voice
floods with brilliance
of the winter sun.
There is no space
between us
I doubt nothing.
