After Sandra Beasley
When they made me,
their hands were not caressing love. Their fingers
worked needles, left me in stitches,
but they weren’t like her, now, giggling,
you in her palms, making a manger of me.
It wasn’t long before this
that he took us over to the side of the road,
swerving snowstorm knuckles, sweating hurricane worries.
And she knew you, even then,
even as she wept, glee and misery, just minutes
ago, before she learned you
with starlight hands, meeting your eyes and your cries.
Now he stands above the scene,
observing your Madonna,
the one that I cradle, his face
a round moon among yellow lamp galaxies,
because here you are
melting onto my loveless leather, knowing
what I will never know–
I am gray as ever, but you
are swimming life colors, and she
keeps you for her own, forever,
sighing promises that I can only overhear.