10-4-06 7pm at the smoke house

Is your forehead still a swollen absence warm skinned baby?
I am sorry for all the abrasions and the traffic
and the madness that will come tomorrow.
If I were your mother I would keep you in the dark
sheltered from the caustic armies of the generations.
I would be a bad mother,
holding you hostage in my lulling voice, yearning weeds
for the bottom of the river under our birthed bodies,
arid as our first breath.
I would keep your sleep tied to me
so all the marching soldier days would pass you by
leaving you as I was, limber enough
to grasp the world in a stroke of wonder.