Monday, August 8, 2011

Near Austin, August 7

Open arms, open arms.
Your foster child is blessed, her room is hallowed, the great-grandmother has entered it.
Eighty-four years separate two women who will never remember each other. Both rejoice in the other, light up like clouds aflame in sunlight.
Here is a home, a home, a home,
Liberal and loving.
Open arms invite entrance to the heart
Can I trust vulnerability?
A warmth like a kiss in the corner of the mouth. A twitch, a smile, a gentle southern twang,
And the little one’s soft head and tender body passed from embrace to embrace. Conversation of fishing and of fishing. Caught fish must be cleaned, may wound you in the cleaning.
Peacemaking, our mother joins two hands across the table. Like a sign, the others cover them with their own.
Don’t Shave Dogs Past Easter becomes Don’t Say Pure Desire Ever Abandons those who lift up their hands…or spread them wide.
She will not remember you, but she will know red hair for kisses for the rest of her life.

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