mine.

on a stairwell we climbed,

i carried her, the gift 

i'd received from a night 

in a forest

cabin quickly disappearing,

all mine

(we'd never remember 

such things

if she had not come).

we crossed the playground,

cut through the people,

rolled over the cracks,

gliding down the slopes

of concrete, slowly.

i, of all things, a mother

(by way of 

forgotten movements,

of all ways)

carrying her child

up a stairwell,

round and long,

circling on my feet,

and i remembered,

she is mine.

then a room,

and telephone rings,

and by now

this dream is broken,

(and i knew

the phone must be

ringing, and i am now

awake, awake.)

since i heard father

pick up the message,

and the two men conversed

as my dream dragged on

watching some people

speak of dates and times

for christmas gatherings,

and the wife staring 

with subtle detest

at the other woman.

but i am now awake.

certainly, awake.

walking, i went

to see the phone, but

there were no messages;

and to the room,

there was no father;

and to my arms,

no baby of mine.