Unshaken

Sitting in the restaurant, Mama thinks of her first journey: the move from the darkness inside to the light of the earth:
Eyes that view the rosiness in cheeks, the patterns of the t-shirt...
Ears that hear the pitch of human banter, a clatter of a fork against a plate...
And it is all good.
As her warm body snuggles into her Mama's in the corner of a booth, Mama thinks of Jesus' hands covering the small frame.
She prays for this connection to the divine: for now and forever.
She places the child in the stroller and walks out of the restaurant door: the light gives way to the darkness that cannot be extinguished because of Mama's gray coat that smothers the dawn.

You Don't Know

Come closer to me.
Yes, me.

The woman covered in sweatshirts of odd colors ..

who can't see the sunlight between the buildings

or smell the hotdogs as the cart rolls past her feet...

Years ago, she would kiss her husband and then take his hand to dance on the kitchen floor. Later, they would eat dinner together, and she would iron her uniform in their bedroom, humming that song they danced to.

She holds no cardboard sign, but you don't need it. You know: Her hair is dirty, her belly is hollow.

But you don't know the creatures and terrors inside her: tsunamis that stir the sand, ghastly ghost hands underneath the bed, guns that fire.

Maybe sit beside her on that hard sidewalk, and give

her some dancing shoes.