Daniel Thomas ~ Poet

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Not the mother whispering to her daughter that the flush

of her skin heralds a holy arrival, not the doctor

discovering the jarring fact in the course of a routine

exam, not angels fluttering, trumpets sounding,

and an epiphany fit for the miracle of another ordinary

savior—but the deep yellow wash of urine

over a plastic wick pungently announcing, yes

the sperm and egg have met, and are shacking up

in the same hovel where new love rules

and stacks of dishes go unwashed, sheets

unchanged, phone calls unanswered, library books

unreturned:  they are blissful in their union and out of

the indolence of love comes the industry of building

cells for eyes, tongue, pancreas, ear lobes,

knuckles, and the stubborn soles of tiny feet.

Put away your bedclothes, put away the cardboard box

and instructions, climb into the slipcase of sheets

with me, for within you now, tinier than

your heart, your stomach, the grapes and pasta you ate

for dinner last night, is a new being, shaken

with rhythm as you practice your ballet leaps, busy

changing everything within your ballet spin.

 POEMS
 
WITHOUT THE MOCKINGBIRD

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