“We look at the world once in childhood.
The rest is memory.” Louise Gluck
In my first house of cut-up puzzles
Mother disappears behind jumbled
heights, walls, gravity windowpanes—
a domain of no lullabies
but instead, pauses.
In the upstairs room under elms
stars pelt the glass.
Hunger returns. Under my chin
white ruffles loop endlessly.
I remember to this day
the curved bassinet, dusty pink,
how I lived within its wicker.
Later she stored it on the back porch
where even now, generations later,
it calls me to return.