This is the poem that I placed in my womb beside you:
Freight
I am the ship in which you sail,
little dancing bones,
your passage between the dream
and the waking dream,
your sieve, your pea-green boat.
I'll pay whatever toll your ferry needs.
And you, whose history's already charted
in a rope of cells, be tender to
those other unnamed vessels
who will surprise you one day,
tug-tugging, irresistible,
and float you out beyond your depth,
where you'll look down, puzzled, amazed.
-- by Maura Dooley
And this is the poem for after you'd gone:
Red Onion, Cherries, Boiling Potatoes, Milk -
Here is a soul, accepting nothing.
Obstinate as a small child
refusing tapioca, peaches, toast.
The cheeks are streaked, but dry.
The mouth is firmly closed in both directions.
Ask, if you like,
if it is merely sulking, or holding out for better.
The soup grows cold in the question.
The ice cream pools in its dish.
Not this, is all it knows. Not this.
As certain cut flowers refuse to drink in the vase.
And the heart, from its great distance, watches, helpless.
-- by Jane Hirshfield
And this is the poem that remains:
You will be my starlight
And I will remember you in the red and blue of night
You will be my starlight, to whom I will whisper my wishes
You will be my starlight, thoughts uncountable like fishes
You will be my starlight and
I will whisper your notion like a prayer
-- by Feliz Perez
In the future, there will be more poems, and they will be mine.
PHOTO CREDITS: Big Little Sister.
Freight
I am the ship in which you sail,
little dancing bones,
your passage between the dream
and the waking dream,
your sieve, your pea-green boat.
I'll pay whatever toll your ferry needs.
And you, whose history's already charted
in a rope of cells, be tender to
those other unnamed vessels
who will surprise you one day,
tug-tugging, irresistible,
and float you out beyond your depth,
where you'll look down, puzzled, amazed.
-- by Maura Dooley
And this is the poem for after you'd gone:
Red Onion, Cherries, Boiling Potatoes, Milk -
Here is a soul, accepting nothing.
Obstinate as a small child
refusing tapioca, peaches, toast.
The cheeks are streaked, but dry.
The mouth is firmly closed in both directions.
Ask, if you like,
if it is merely sulking, or holding out for better.
The soup grows cold in the question.
The ice cream pools in its dish.
Not this, is all it knows. Not this.
As certain cut flowers refuse to drink in the vase.
And the heart, from its great distance, watches, helpless.
-- by Jane Hirshfield
And this is the poem that remains:
You will be my starlight
And I will remember you in the red and blue of night
You will be my starlight, to whom I will whisper my wishes
You will be my starlight, thoughts uncountable like fishes
You will be my starlight and
I will whisper your notion like a prayer
-- by Feliz Perez
In the future, there will be more poems, and they will be mine.
PHOTO CREDITS: Big Little Sister.
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