By Kathleen Flenniken
for my oldest
I stretch out on the stainless steel tray
that is this sleepless dark
and examine my own maternal sensors
tuned half a world away to your blinking light.
Imagine arrays of radio scanners spinning
while the blip that is you
strolls cobbled streets in Spain.
I read you very clearly.
Thank you for shifting one pair of underwear
from your suitcase to your carry-on
before we checked your bags and said goodbye.
What do I do with these feeler things
once they outlast their usefulness?
Like extra hands getting in the way.
Before you were born
I let go of your stroller in a dream
and watched you tumble off a cliff.
They were just emerging then.