The Visitation
Sky fills
with three or four seahorses.
Everything blue, green and shimmering,
everything.
Tiny fathers who mother
to life the unborn, float across
to life the unborn, float across
our field of vision,
radiating pure joy.
They are a July
rainfall,
surprising us completely
here on top of a picnic table,
our two mothers taken by
cancer years’ ago.
I roll over, come home into morning’s
body, happy the only
word I know
or can say.
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