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    Sunday Study



    Big woman makes a mark, cuts cheek to summon  bone.

    Little woman stands as best she can, blind and lumpen.

    Big woman smiles, teeth in a gear pulled by time’s scar

    a fold and a crick sideways paying interest.

    Big woman has big hands, big enough to squeeze

    little woman up in one fist.

    They rise heavy, quick and pigeon grey in the air around

     little woman: to feed and be fed, their urgent motion...

    (A bent neck completing the cherished arc of her intentions.)

    Big woman’s eyes dilate to blindness

    sucking Sunday sunshine, November windows

    in the black concentration of pupil.

    Little woman grows a nose, two breasts, a midline definition--

    slight shadow rippling her belly as the ribbon tool

    gently peels its grey divine, tender as

    a lover/mother tracing treasure.

    Big woman’s back is bunched up, holding fire in a quiver,

    extending sacred space that shields her tiny sister.

    One hand cups the cranial egg while the other

    cuts and turns two eyes to trim the gaze

    of jealous trees that speak against the pane.

    Big woman pushes time down

    little woman’s chest with her thumb and

    plucks up strength along her back;

    clay rises in a muscle, falls along the path of pregnancies,

    strings the stomach’s hammock hip to hip,

    fiddles with fertility, externalities...

    Little boy blows in, leaf caught in a vortex, a stockinged swirl

    through the knowing space that hand and eye creates:

    “Can I do clay? Can I Mom?”

    Big woman uncoils the bodythought snake,

    warms coldblooded to little boy,

    the pink stars of his hands flattering and pattering her knees in

    leaf light delight.

    Her eyes unwind her heart to focus their smile. She gently hollows

    little woman’s body for the extra clay that he desires:

    “This is all I have for you this time.”

    He judges it solemnly between his palms.

    “That’s good, Mom.”

    Little boy looks at little woman.

    Little woman has dusty corners in her eyes,

    a ticket to another destination.

    “I want to make a boy. He’s a five year old and he’s called Jon.”

    Little boy pries open big woman’s lap

    and the limbs of the trees

    scratch scratch scratch against the screens.

    Big woman shells him with her arms

    and lays her head down on the top of his as they

    roll and pinch the clay together.

    She breathes in childhood (the humid shadows of his neck)

    and imagines the pearly jism

    of his creation deep and warm within her.

    Little woman dries and pales.

    Light is littered by the criss cross of branches,

    passes slowly into darkness.




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