What
His Thumb Would Say
You are quiet, you are secret.
You are so small I can barely touch you,
little pile of fingers.
You are a whisper against the sheets,
a sound lodged in the dark.
If I touch you there will you cry?
If I uncover your lips will you start screaming?
I’m a print on your chin. I’m a smudge on your face.
I am slaked, tiny daughter.
My Mother and Me
Another pieces of teacup gathered.
In saucers, the hearts of onions sometimes
separate into two parts, one as teary as the other.
Another day of sweeping up fragments,
another elbow banged against losing.
Another apron folding its shoulders into glass.
Another sound of knuckles knocking against wood.
The funny bone of it crowds the arms folded against my waist.
Standing this way, I remember a fallen bottle we glued together,
my mother and me, keeping my father from seeing how broken I was.
Up on the table, some fingers missing, one hand backwards.
Copyright © 2004 Rebecca Cook