In the beginning were bright lights and wailing,
silence’s delivery came much later in the day,

history reduced to a handful of smudged lines
slapped on the backside of blue stationery—

Mother—
I want you to tell me what I already know:

that rain falls unseen upward
after reaching into the earth;

that a fingertip’s touch leaves indelible prints
on a cradled baby boy’s head, too heavy to be held

up on its own; I want you to tell me
that lips remember warmth

the way grapes cling to memories
of the soil’s breast that nursed them;

Mother—
I have seeded so many letters for you

within this graveled ground’s furrowed skin;
I want to feel your words fill my mouth,

to be wrapped in your voice
the way rain swaddles air—