A little scar cuts across her upper lip, Cupid’s Bow interrupted,
the thought sometimes slipped into my mind, a phrase to write
a poem upon, as I fixated midway through
conversations on front lawns of days
and ways of memory, and futures still within our reach.

Our woman songs undulating, in accents usual or syncopated,
we rung our hands of worry,
lifted our bosoms heavy with motherhood
and strutted round bottoms for all to envy.
Jingling our bangles, bobbles to rhythm of chatter
on breezy porch doorsteps,
driveways reaching over the distance of our sisterhood
with a quick and neighborly wave.

How’s the kids? How’s the kids? How’s the kids . . .

We aged on our front lawns,
standing ankle deep in plastic swimming pools,
the winds slapping our cheeks raw with yesterday’s promises,
and we braced ourselves for the unmerciful, because we loved

…the kids

All these years we’ve loved the kids
and nothing else has really mattered.

And all these years

Her meztizo contour has held its bold and rich design,
a beauty maturing within its own smooth dark skin.
She and I have moved our hips with slow, slide-to-slide satisfaction,
the phantom impression of side slung babes forever seen in our nakedness.

September afternoon,

She bites the scar across her lip. Lip quivering,
unprotected by all her love.
My hands could only cup her face
to hold this treasure of living life just as life is

. . . so unexpected

My baby
A mother
cries

My

baby
Her tears,
weigh my palms with insatiable sorrow

jeanne rené 09.07