A Birth

     "She’s crazy," they said, and perhaps I was,
     with my pain and your weight and forgetting
     to take off my sunglasses as I came down
     the crumbling stone steps from the temple,
     in the dark.  I remember my bare feet
     scraping damp rock, my bare arms
     grabbing at thick mud, and the sound
     of plaster Saints crumbling--
     Then I heard someone call, "Wake up, Jane,
     you know you can."  And another, lower,
     "We tried."

     Come, Little One, it’s Angel time
     for us.  You won’t remember milk,
     but we fill one need.  Remember Saints,
     their thuds and squeaks as we scraped
     past them?  We can gather broken bodies.
     We have glue, but where are the crumbs?
     By Judgment Day we must find
     those crumbs.


     Alberta Turner  (Click for bio.)


      


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