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Like a dark miracle, they sleep, two am
at a truck stop outside Indianapolis;
my husband of three cities, three years—
flycatcher, scrub jay, kingfisher;
our baby daughter, little chickadee,
pale wrinkle, my inkling.
A motherless girl who now mothers,
I am loved twice, two orchids, two glimpses
of the afterlife, two clear-wing butterflies,
two fox sightings—twice scraped, twice owned.
A cold rain splatters into neon
and the random chill of trucklight
while my husband breathes slowly,
as he does everything, his lips full and parted.
We are a family of flight, tracing the hunger
of this country, half ravished and heading home
to Georgia as the world calls us to sleep.
Staring at my husband’s hands of clarity,
skin smoother than mine, I am trespassing
into a field of orphan lilies brushed with sun,
am given two smooth stones, crushed by a blessing.
I have forgotten my sister, the dark-eyed junco.
There’s only night and rain, husband, babe, sleep,
this black string of small good things.
We are not young parents, but this moment
contains a visible trace of newness, shielded
like my daughter’s eyes, though shut,
alight with the color of sky and earth.
Praise her intent awakening. Praise her sleep.
Praise the rain’s joyful tapping—again, again for grace.

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