Before I was born, I know, that night,
sweating and covered with prickley heat,
you hauled us both (such a heavy load)
onto this same bus* and rode
it all the way to Washington Square,
praying all the bumps would dare
me to begin the separating
I could not seem to start, loving
the womb so — tenacious, late.
I’ll never know if you wrote this that
August night, recalling soft spring
and the changes I would bring.
Or perhaps it was a later date,
as your faded shorthand, hard to translate,
points white moon finger that might have stained your hair
too. the stop sign an ominous “Beware”