Molly Spencer

THE MOTHER
after Jane Hirshfield

She's sleeping now in a room
I, too, have slept in. Her limbs
bent in a nest of sheets. I know

the long, unseen shadows
of her arms, far branches
of a body thrown wide in the unlit

night. Her dreams? I know them,
too. They're the same vagabond
dreams I dread. Even her bed,
I can feel on my back. The walls —

let me decide whether they're intact
or rashed with nail holes.
Let her have

a narrow table, a pale cup
of water, a blank window above.

Let small fires
of soul and bone kindle
within her. Let a door stand open.

And the growing ones,
let them be born unfolding
and hungry.

Let her have three.

And all their wind
and attendant weather.

And always too few arms
for the holding.