Mother
You wake in the middle of the night.
This is not new. I move
dreamlike to your bed, empty my pockets,
open my arms, offer water and all
that which is music for you—soothing words,
the moon time sway of murmured
song and dance, our odd routine.
Someone lost her only child tonight,
tightened her grasp around
small bones, soft skin still warm,
closing those tiny eyes
in a final gesture of care-taking,
shielding her baby
from her own wracking grief
or a last view
of their world of
famine, war, desperate pain.
Two continents away we feel the shudder,|
and I squeeze you a bit too hard,
almost knowing why,
and millions of us everywhere
do this dance night after night,
reaching and holding and rocking,
wiping the same tears.
We are all one mother,
loving and nursing
and mourning
the same beloved child.
–Melinda Coppola
All by way of saying…