THE CHILD - CIRCLES

Lacquer

In her carseat carrier in the doctor’s waiting room
Her starfish hands seek her mouth
Like two celestial space flowers, opening and closing
In a liquid, arrhythmic flow that is purely, impeccably
Almost two-months-old
“Almost two months”
You tell me when I ask, raising her from the seat in a
Single, smooth, seasoned step to your shoulder
Where a receiving blanket waits with prescience
Over your practical denim work shirt

I see your eyes travel to my hands and an eyebrow lifts
At my cranberry flame acrylic nails
You turn your back, our conversation over
My lacquered hands having automatically sorted me as “other”

You have no way of knowing that this is the first polish
I have worn in twenty-five years
No way of knowing that I still rock grocery bags
Or the way my head whips around
When a tiny voice in a crowd calls “Mommy!” although
My baby’s voice is now a low, deep basso
You have no way of knowing
That I now must look up to see that baby’s face
Yet, when the nurse calls my name, and I pick up my things
I will spend at least a fraction of a second
Searching for the diaper bag

I cut off my long hair twenty-five years ago
And never grew it back
Starfish tangled in it like complex chestnut kelp until
It was more trouble than it was worth
I spent years without earrings
For the searching starfish quested the brightness
Discovered, clenched and pulled

Through much of my life, I wore your uniform, right down to the
Prescient receiving blanket
I know the dance you weave by heart
I walked and rocked the same patterned steps
My hands automatically patting an ancient, age-old scansion
Softly against a tiny back

It was such a very short while ago
That I put on a skirt and earrings that hang down
That the starfish I loved slipped out of my fingers
And I painted their tips with cranberry flame


©Edwina Peterson Cross