The nightingales are sobbing in
The orchards of our mothers,
And hearts that we broke long ago
Have long been breaking others
-W. H. Auden
At 6 am there was thunder
loud enough to wake me and the cats
rain toe-tapping on the pane
calling us to the theater:
"Come look at us, heavy clouds
of dark morning: spray-headed,
sunrises in our throat.
Enjoy our Sunday eyes"
I did. The paper people
at the bus stop huddled
& dissolved under wet slants.
The crust of horizon broke away
into thick puff-parcels, and
beneath it all the water flung
itself against the scory stone
before escaping down the drain cape.
"Come look at us, the wet-nurses:
our hands on the doll-face petals,
the walls of leaves. We evaporate
into the sea engine, purring with life."
To the mothers we were given, and to the mothers we made.