Ode to an Emigrant

The moon leads us home       
you, your mama and papa and I
following its fat drop of creamy 
colostrum, froth of pale gold
 
and I remember your mother’s
first night, Van Gogh stars
wheeling in the sky, me trembling
before her unknowable gaze.             
 
I hold you as once     
I held your mother,
head and narrow rump 
cupped in either hand.
 
Small traveler, sojourner, pilgrim
from a world I had long forgotten, 
world she has forgotten too, 
as we all must, as will you.