Witness

When a soul finds its home

In the watery nest

Of a woman’s bones and her hands come to rest

On the dome of her carriage,

She fancies herself as the giver of life,

Always misunderstanding 

The nature of time as a circle 

That sweeps through the middle 

Of bodies and dream worlds, but witness:

The stem cells of babies are left behind

In the mother’s blood for the rest of her life

And they rush to the site of her injury—

When her heart gives way,

They return to weave

The magic they carried into this world

To sustain the first rhythm that they ever heard.

The wide dominion of innocence

Finds its freedom in this and only this—

When you spend your whole life giving children the tools

To dismantle the very specter of you.