My palm probes her belly
like a metal detector searching
for lost silver.
On my lap I crisp the creases of linen,
the most insignificant of items now
precious as a maple leaf pressed
in pages of a grammar school primer.
Soon she will spread her legs, gasp,
and the cycle will begin again:
betrayal, floggings, terror in temples, the empty tomb.
It's a pinwheel game I didn't see
when Spring after Spring I trimmed the grass
barely noting how buds recur
in a stand of maples.
Again you lie on my lap.
Your Ma is putting on the kettle,
Pa snoozing at the table.
You have not yet opened your eyes.
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