At oven's Door
David L. White
Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes … Yo no sé!
Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,
la Resaca de todo lo sufrido
se empozara en el alma … Yo no sé!
Like the rest of us,
you were watered into this world,
tender limbs coming
from your mother like
a wet calf—in frothy angles
all elbows and knees—
peach purity, a spark tremulous
in onion paper skin
to grow with dimpled rolls
about your thighs, belly, neck,
hair finer than feathers
wet lips and the milk
smell of your mother
like the rest of us
like our birth, our breath.
We know what babies are.
Match the sole of our own feet,
touch the hem of our daughters,
in understanding, in incomprehension
in unbelief like yours
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