One thing happens, then another.
In the long slow rise, so many hands
reach out and lift us
over fallen branches, hidden drops,
hard crops of stone. The moon
tilts up its yellow chin. The clouds
disperse. We grow into a face
our mothers recognize as someone else,
a father’s father, sister’s sister.
Nobody is single in this world.
That’s all we know, will ever know,
about the ways we come and go.
We’re pulled to presence by a doctor’s
urgent, gentle hands; we’re laid
to sleep and covered over. Nobody’s
alone. I’m here with you. Here
reaching for your fingers, holding on.