It seems like nothing
to slide a button into
its buttonhole, a belt
into its buckle. The one
without fingers or a hand
learns to feed and bathe
herself, comb her hair,
write a letter— patience
the foot touching the earth
and everything upon it.
Cells travel a generation
or two, then knock up
against the hem
of a newborn's striped
hospital blanket. Some things
come out in the wash. Others
take years to peel away,
to excavate, to be seen
for what they are.
History astounds in even
the smallest particulars.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.