Paloma Wool, 10.25.19
Paloma Wool wondered,
Was motherhood an inside joke
For the woman gone so long now
That her voice is a fiction?
They sat on a shag rug and howled
A dizzy duet of laughter. Between them
A dog-eared Cook’s Tour of Mexico.
Pointing to El Parián with promises
In their mouths and then
All the world could not hold.
Her hand found a question
Hidden beneath the canvas of her shirt.
We’re connected in this way. We know
The same panic, if not the same conviction.
They sat on a flat bed and howled
A pain doubled by fear. Beyond them
A wet-eyed daughter.
She is not a plan unkept.
She is a dove sent out
In search of life after the flood.