Gratitude to the editors, publisher and other artists, for publishing this poem in the Maternal Journal #2
Geese divide the mottled sky,
they lack triangularity. The mother in me
wants to count them, aloud. But for once,
the car is empty; I am alone. So, I stop
once I’ve reached four. There is a name
for this type of sky. And an expert could tell
you the geese know something
about winter. But I have to think
before I know which direction they fly towards,
and though I used to drift,
today, I know my own path: If
I am not home, I will be there
soon. I am tethered by one small being,
and even were I to try to wander,
my body would grow heavy
with milk, with longing,
with an awareness of need.
No longer migratory, I return.
Submit to this cardinal being, instinct’s darling.