Poem Of The Week: 11/11/2004

	The Baby that Went to the Canyon

Once Sarah's belly started
its descent through the atmosphere,
round enough
to say "pregnancy" more
than "blintzes" or "waffles" or "designer pudding;"

we found ourselves surrounded by child breeders
squeezing advice out their fists,
every bit tasting like convenience store coffee
as they mouthed "expecting"
as if they meant "leprosy,"
they said the word "baby"
like the chronic pandemic that had nearly killed them,

so
we sat strapped in, feeling the shake
of landing gear cranking out
and I felt my stomach descend in a crash,
terrified we were dropping to ghosthood, spirits bound
to a haunting house, no one able to talk to us
without a ouiji board, a mystic, or other supernatural planning;

and
just 
then,
the baby

pokes her head out
as if saying "Hello,"
as if announcing "Hello mama, papa,
beautiful day, is it not?"

which we did not expect.
She, newly arrived, wasn't supposed to
do this, do more than wrap us in walls,
three-person cell
with network TV and no exercise yard;
we, with books wrenched open, all 
titled "Baby's First Year,"
"Baby, Year One," "First Year Baby," "Year 
Baby First One," all of them pulled apart and pored over
to read the telegraph signals of her sighs and gurgles,

we found on our own,
we are tethered to the earth
and that's okay.  We have a carseat,
we have a road atlas, and the aspens
on the Canyon's North Rim are all, this moment,
burning from green to the exact color 
of sunlight. 

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