For Momma

I live on a terrace of chiffon—at babbling mother’s ankles;
A pebble sized hand leans in too shy of grabbing- throwing her off
I find the hem of something judiciable just then,
Individuation is key here—you walk first though.
Nine months the elder—I have seen the other child do so,
I got a bee in my hip and sprang into action, I could do that much!
My cleverness abounds in impish curled toes, I slope forward!
She, beautiful Helen, sings as she pins her hands to mine
I memorize her face, her eyes waiting—I am newly lacing words
With my soft palate.
There are little buoys that move like chimeras above me,
With flashes of red and blue, a set of perfect tangles
Lovely, something as yet unnamed to me.
Wind the eight millimeter forward now;
I am reminded we are both women finally, un-harnessed by growing
Each other, teaching one the next child our thread of being
I go on too much for her;
Warping memory—am I a study in my sisters and long gone brother?
One of her many names for a loved one, perhaps
We are the figurative for eighths of things, swords of life to
feminine curves loaned from ancestors.
When I go to her on a sunny porch, will the Kentucky blue grass beyond
Still admire our elderly feet, or will it cringe at time
And starve us our passing—will God say yes,
Let them in?
They have always known each other, I’d like Him to mention;
Even when there was water about their cells
And symbols on tongues could not fathom gathering our names,
They were one, way back when.