Twelve Years Later
You sent a picture of you with a baby on
and I sent you a picture of me with a baby on my lap,
and neither one was a baby we made together.
Once, at eighteen: the slow play of sweat on a shoulderblade
I conjured the musty drapes of assignation.
A mote of dust in my soul wisps
back and forth once in a while, then is gone,
like dust is gone.
A wolf spider
gave birth in the crown molding;
we captured all that we could.
But we didnt move the spiders far enough away
from the house foundation.
So theyre back again
and Im killing them everywhere so they dont bite
Inside me still I am only the ghost of a child,
throwing petals in a black lake for a mother that has been
long enough for her bones to turn to chalky shore.
And then there is a voice that calls me darling.
If you've any comments on this poem, Rosemarie Koch would be pleased to hear from you.