Upon Waking as Mother

Dreamt again of my child liftedout of my hands.                      Of the sperm planted

like two great hands of a stranger reachinginside of me,                              spreading wide fingers

that make me a fault-line. Make mea prayer book,                            a consortium of root

lines like highways and migrationpatterns. The night falls           every night. I fall every night,

to a face of one kind or another whotakes from me—                        from space I am folded into.

Selvage dream, or a river I stopoften to watch.                          The current is quicker

than it seems, snow too slow to trace,it takes its fingers                      to my abdomen, loosens my joints.