Each body
Each body remembers the necessary
distance between lovers
the space & touch,
here & recalled
Each body remembers the necessary
distance of thought
the surge of inquiry, letting go of intrusion
leaves dropping into stream’s flow
Each body remembers
the necessary breath when
stomach knots, throat constricts, pelvis locks
breath shallow, please lengthen
Each body remembers the necessary
touch, right hand stroking left,
mother caressing brow
kissing eyelids
Each body remembers the taste of
cinnamon buns from the oven, brown
sugar & cloves caramelized
butter melting
Each body remembers
what we may not know
know unknown
our body
Each body remembers
what we may not know
know unknown
our body
friend
Each body
each body
Each reach
Note: The title and first words of this poem are drawn from nancy viva davis halifax’s poem “Each body remembers the necessary distance between beds” (hook, 2015).
Are you alive, baby robin?
Trailing home from school, I found
a pale blue eggshell, cracked
in two. The halves
fit together perfectly.
Once I spotted a whole small egg,
placed it in my palm.
Another day crusted on the sidewalk
a gruesome knot of blood & yoke.
We gathered leaves, prized feathers.
Our mothers drank tea,
saved the bags
for another cup.
Now, these sister-artists dream
root figures in gauzy filament,
Jack Lake dancing cerulean.
Cotton nightie, feathery touch.
Goldfinches, cardinals,
blue jays in the yard.
Robins tuck twigs
in nests.
Their song lifts
as traffic fades, air sweetens.
But can my pregnant midwife daughter
breathe through her mask?
Mothers give birth,
their partners locked out,
only two allowed in the unsafe room:
midwife & mother─
everywhere in the world
a baby coming.
Note: This poem was written for Elaine Whittaker and Kelley Aitken’s art exhibition Filamentous and performed at the closing, November 2022.
