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Between raindrops,
space, certainly,
but we call it all rain.
I hang in the undrenched intervals,
while Callie is sleeping,
my old self necessary
and imperceptible as air.
Copyright © 2012 by Camille T. Dungy. Used with permission of the author.
so little open prairie left little waves of bluestem little
fuzzy tongue penstemon quieter the golden currant
nodding onion quieter now as well
Two miles into
the sky, the snow
builds a mountain
unto itself.
Some drifts can be
thirty feet high.
Picture a house.
Then bury it.
The average mother loses 700 hours of sleep in the first year of her child’s life; or, what that first year taught me about America.