In Your Hands

I always thought children a miracle;
my breasts made to nurse.

In a bubble of self-pity,
he dances for a child

not wanted.
Blood from birth stained his thoughts;

marked
the child as punishment.

And weapon.
Turned by one parent

against
the other.

With hands and patience and clear eyes
you guide that rhythm

Elbow deep
in a laboring cow, you make life

your own.
And that horrifying

moment,
very nearly death.

I face you over the mountain spring,
the clearest of birth waters, and

the union of our gaze soothes me
more that ever could

the fumbles of
one

who's created life
but never sees birth.

1990

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©2005-2008-2008 Barbara L.M. Handley

Contact Barbara Handley at mailto:ardea@flipsideb.com

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