The Thing Has a Mind of Its Own
When my mother was born the angels took flight
and sang a song that had never been heard. When
mother was born sunflowers filled the ocean and the
waves became soft, merciful, laying kisses upon her feet. When
my mother was born she cradled all the bees in the rocking crook
of her arms and honey spilled onto the floor every time they
laughed. When my mother was born the world learned
the word light. My mother pours sugar into my
cupped hands and the city falls silent.
The sparrows burst from the trees and the
jays rustle the branches and she knows
every single one of their names. There
are things the earth remembers and the earth
remembers my mother’s mother and her mother
and her mother and hers and hers and hers until the dark
first broke in half. They held and were held. They sang their songs.
They crossed river and desert and frozen wasteland. They opened
themselves and brought forth life, life in all its beauty, sons and
daughters. The world learned the word mother. And the rain
came down, and the lightning filled their bodies, and the
tombs all turned to dandelions. Someday they will see.
Someday the men will realize that the thing has a
mind of its own. For now the chickadees call for
my mother and perch on her shoulders. For
now the sugar falls from my hands and
takes roots in the dirt. For now I look
at the sky and wonder if it will
change. For now we think of
mothers and mothers and
mothers to come.