My Words

My Words

by Susan Crane

My daughter sleeps on a new continent
but her dreams are my dreams,
a faraway and fantastic longing.
The Tasmanian sea before her
and the barren prairie before me.

My heart never intended
to wander this far. My prayers weave a
brilliant tapestry of loss,
a fraying certainty
that she was never really mine
to begin with.

I hear an occasional syllable
tossed on a wave.
Buoyant and then broken and then silent.
Who am I, if not her mother?
What cartography exists to chart such
an absence of faith?

I crave the sight and the smell of her,
the warm and tiny fingers, dusty in their
fervent childhood grasp of my hand,
of my heart.

There is a vastness inherent in mothering a nomadic child.
A geographic distance unlikely ever
to be measured.



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