A Mother’s Jet Lag

Predawn dark lurks outside the windows, 
the quiet delivery of the newspaper anticipated.
I have already washed dishes in sudsy water, 
roasted potatoes and celeriac for dinner, now 
brussels sprouts sizzling in the olive-oiled pan.
My children are twisted in their fleece blankets,
flushed faces a bit pink. They breathe lightly. 
 
Somewhere in Mongolia’s darkening evening,
a woman is milking: the horse for ayrag spirits,
the yak for salty milk tea, the goats for cheese 
and dried yogurt, food that kept Genghis Khan 
on the move across the steppes, food for her 
children curled in sleep under felt blankets, stars 
settling behind western hills. They breathe lightly.