Bones and Bridges

for Micah

I think about my body,

and the way it stretches, bone under skin,

hip to knee, my knees and hips.

We started as cells in the universe,

twinkling lights and aerial somethings.

Yes, that space between my hip and knee

is enough to pull out my breath,

to get me seeing how small we start—

eyes and toes—

and there are elephants and whales,

inhaling rivers, breaching sand;

The oceans’ largest ivories could house us.

I think of skyscrapers

and the way a man looks at my smiling lips

like there is beauty inside these gaps—

shelves for miracles,

and a face that astounds.

We, life-sized and absolute,

have made our own mountains,

conquered the universe,

devoured frontiers: sea, land, sky.

We assembled steel elbows and joints,

built across rivers and continents.

But what rocks me, stops me quickest,

is the way the baby smiles—

eyelashes, fingernails —

cribbed and swaddled,

sees his mother’s face.

On his back he beams

and fuels her without words.

He knows: this is nature, this is love.

The baby’s mouth, one gap, no teeth.

His eyes catch me,

gaps, hands, faces.

Bones and bridges.