by Sue Goyette

The new mothers are petting the giraffe neck of street lights,
cooing for more light. The streets are so unsafe.

And they’re buckling up their tenderness. Oh the state
of the world! The new mothers have to attach umbrellas

to the things that move their children from here
to there. There is no more driving. The price of black ice

and yellow lights and gasoline. And the weather!
Fuck, the new mothers want to say. They have to wash their water

with water. The whole planet is at the window peering in
while the new mothers sit on the side of the bed.

They have to be wolves; they have to be golden-winged
warblers. Reminders, reminders.

They bury their phones for a minute of peace,
rendezvous to master Goodnight Moon

while the earth rings and rings beneath their feet.

Sue Goyette lives and writes in Halifax. She teaches in the Creative Writing Program at Dalhousie University. Her third collection of poetry is forthcoming from Brick Books.