after Leonora Carrington
For your birth, a river-rush basket lined in fleece, willow walls, and knots of pillows stitched in birds.
White curtains in that light folded the bright into the heart of their threads. Our first night, you:
barely big as a dandelion clock. But in the morning, your basket’s a shell, and a rush of wings, mit Lieb,
outside the window leaves me quiet as your feet planted on the earth. As the treetops at your cotton
hem. As the clouds cradling your cheeks. Quiet as your eyes seeking solace in resignation. Don’t
worry, mine say, I will align the stars for you and wash your feet in rivers.