Poetry

beyond my age and before it, / time canned in oil-thick memory

My period is late / the week I acquire a pair of spring rabbits for my children

They say patience is tendril, // is hyphae, is longer than the tall rustling / grass.

we point to beautiful things / as if being a parent requires it

I’m sure she did this / though I have no memory

I think / the fury must be me.

The mother hovers even as the child / slips into sleep.

But now between my sovereign center and my tongue / I stall

mother, say we keep circling back / say there is no getting over this

She says / I don’t know / what it’s like to be the only / Jewish girl / at school. / I say, / Tell me.

where a mother can / only make a country of her arms, / cradle the light at the center