Rocking Chair

Where a mortal mom
feeds baby-baby.

Where she rushes
past charred snow,
numb coat,
towards cherries.

Where droplets drop.
Where each swallow
draws a circle
‘round the air that does not hear.
So she also doesn’t fear.

Where the quick quick, take cover,
dear reader.

Where
she’d bought some tix
to traverse the Styx,
but plans
to exit at the secret stop
the one past the terminal.

If
she doesn’t miss the boat.