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Fastened in my arms, I rock our
embrace back and forth til
her ivory lids slump
downward in forfeit.
Her wee nails fold into 
a prayer, as her rosy bottom lip
juts out, all lustrous and glossy.
I open my mouth and sing
the songs my own mother
used to trill so long ago.
As her limbs shift, preparing
herself for a wide yawn,
all of Heaven and Earth stands still,
awaiting her vestal roar.
The slight rise and fall of her 
fragile chest commands in myself
a reverence that has never
before looked me in the eyes.
This girl does not belong 
to me; nor do I want her for my own,
but her gentle pulse thumping
against my chest reminds me
that the emptiness she rests upon
is a vessel. Mother and Grandmother
beseech me to hurry; I won't always
have my youth. We dance in the circles
of my endless refusal, their denial 
careening above. For all of my 
reservations, I cannot refute the enlightenment
that now washes over me. Then tiny feet kick
to waken, and a sulky howl meets 
my ears. This girl does not belong 
to me, nor does she need to, for 
in our encirclement, I am a mother.

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