in the silver
bowl
you let her head all henna hexed
with indigo
sink.
you watched the ink
Twitch out to tell the tales
from one blue star to the other,
but no maps.

how black is her hair now, this mother,
and how deep am I standing in it?

I am black to the ankle
black and blue to the ankle,
and to the knee,

From the knee to the elbow that
crooks
to hold the baby?