Listen, Mama,
he holds me like a song
whose lyrics he wants to remember,
memorizes my bones,
how they comes together
at the hollow of my throat
and at my wrists.
His wrists are beautiful,
his long-fingered hands
safety nets to catch me
when I sleep into bad dreams.
When he says my name vibrations
of a thousand sandhill cranes
rising rush through me
and I am winging toward the most
extraordinary daybreak.
Mama, did you ever
look at someone
and forget to breathe?

(Originally published in Iowa Woman)