Each chunk we bite from life is a prayer. Our treasure chest homes,
our love-magnet pets, each meal
we grudgingly make and casually take.
Prayers to life
           let us flourish let us live
           let us stay  leave us be  let us stay  leave us be.
Utterances we muster as we swallow, spurred by a rush,
gratitude and fear.  Vehement pleas
           may we preserve what luck we have.

Babies are prayers. Mothering is prayer.
Each tasting kiss, each chattering
diaper change, each worn red sandal putting on pulling off,
each rambling invented story, each whispered
convincing promise. The cradles
we make of our voices,  rocking,  rocking
           may this remain just so   may we all be here   may we
           do this  again and again and again   tomorrow and for
           ever.

Each rolling, belly to belly nursing, a recitation.
Her milky new breath, when it collides
with mine, a sanctuary
between our mouths.
Our hands, as they flutter together
and apart.   Our wondering fingers together
and apart   uttering.

From the instant my doctor said, "Yes, finally
you are pregnant" my hands
grafted themselves to my slow, anxious belly,
how my hands remained steadfastly there while my baby cracked through me,
how my hands shifted to her setting head
           may we be safe    may we be safe    may we be safe
           may we be invulnerable.

The back of the head faces outside:  strategic armour.
The palm inside:  devoted sentry.
Poised between the precious and the dangerous - between her head
and the table corner, her shoulders
and the stair she faces down, her eyes
and a violent sight.
The cradle
I make of my hands - infinite, furious,
futile.
                      Those mothers, their babies,
                      them too.

I know now what I was afraid of
trying to decide if we should have a child
what the ambivalence and fear warned
what those mothers knew
those mothers forced to stand, collapsing
in long terrified lines.
My baby knows what their babies knew,
babies held in faltering arms, shielded
by mother’s unyielding hand.

What is lighter than the mother’s hand
What is heavier than the mother’s exhausted arms
What is heavier than the baby urgent with need
The weight of your child.
The excessive, faultless pull of gravity, a downward
tug I never want to know; after the terrible trains, the father
gone, the baby in her arms for
ever.

And then in the gun point crush
the mother whispers, put your head on my shoulder.
Her hand cups the back of the her baby’s head,
her wrist at the nape of her neck, cradling.
Crushed in the chamber,
she draws the head inward,
interweaves shoulder chin cheek
tucks her nose into her baby’s neck.
She inhales the tart,
moist scent that secrets there.
Her inhalation, a recitation. The rescuing breath,
held in her mouth.

Mothering there.
Did she hold it deeply,
safely in her striving lungs.
Did he slowly exhale
close to her babies mouth
a sanctuary.

In the terror of that leakless room,
tugging each other in the gas,
did she make a sudden choice, or
no choice. Instantaneous.

Later
those mothers, their babies,
extracted from the pile.
The mother’s stiff, angled fingers
driven through her baby’s
hard soft skull,
panic quickening.

The last protection,
not to suffer longer, not to be orphaned for an instant,
What those mothers suddenly knew
what they did. The fingers
loud and silent in their last plea. The hand’s unbearable
story.
What they were so afraid of.
What we are so afraid of .
The last prayer
The last mothering.