For my mother.
Yes, you are in my bones,
as matrix for the matrix of my marrow
and my cells are busy building on your scaffold
there, where bloods are born.
On certain autumn midnights I would ride
my dreams against your sleep.
You localized my life, assured yourself that I was fine,
then turned upon your side.
But now you stir my dreams.
At dawn I hear the mother robins wake and search.
I turn and turn again but matrix of my marrow
has become a womb too deep.
Say, are you planting dahlias
by the walk this spring, again?
And is there room that I could nudge your side
or hold your garden gloves?