children 

ocean born, organelle moon.
when we talk about children 
i always imagine them as jellyfish.
i walk down the stairs into 
microscope images of their cells.
the thin wires of their new bodies like
trapeze. balance & listen.
free of heart & veins.
what a relief to be without blood.
the neon silence. is there enough water?

they come in through the open bed room
window & hover just below the ceiling
until we take them down: pull them
by the tentacles. a cluster 
of helium balloons. it'll be
hard to name them.

in the bath tube after they're
asleep we'll wash each other's
stings. their pneumatocysts are
automatic, we can't blame them for
the scars: red licorice rope 
thrashes-- i trace yours until
they don't hurt anymore.
are we good parents? 

they get bigger (as all children do).
the size of a room-- their bell
ringing all night long. do you
want an ocean? i don't have an ocean
to give you. 

on better nights i read aloud  
from the book of saints like 
my own mother did. the children settle down,
breathe slow & fall asleep
between words. the story of
saint lucy & her eyes on the plate
reminds me to wash the dishes.

i wonder if they're happy.
if they've eaten enough. 
the smoothness of their bodies.
i won't be my mother. i won't.

they arrived so tiny, like thimbles.
keep their baby pictures
in the basement to walk  back into,
the tight ropes-- undulating 
in memory. don't leave yet,
i'm not done.