My child sleeps on her stomach;

one arm crawls over her head

like a swimmer's,

mouth with lush lips

open, a constellation

of moles on her shoulder,

stray stars flung

about the rest of her.

Her breath is a spring breeze

moving curtains, one lock

of hair curls up from her earlobe

to lick the new, rose-lit

earring. With many rings,

bracelets of plastic lace,

I watch her gaily skirt the foothills

of adolescence, just poised

to make the climb; still

the mountain looms

and she sleeps

in its deep green shadow.

 

From Wild Domestic (Pearl Editions, 2011).

Used with the author's permission.