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Where are they sleeping, the babies to be born a hundred years from now? Where did she sleep, my daughter, when I was a child? Has she gone back? And will she know the place? Who’s there? Or does it matter who is there, in that blank space? In fluid form? Force without form? Her tiny nails, her lustrous hair, her laughing face. Survivor on a sofa, I re-voyage to window’s trees, likes ones where I was new— their swing, their girls, their words— and watch night fall. Return from there— A There that was a place? Where is it now? Her nails, her heavy hair, (her pillowed face) |
© 2003 Eleanor Ross Taylor
Six Poems by Eleanor Ross Taylor
