new mexico
(for little she-who-is)

in the bath
she presses her palms
like a prayer together
then peeks them open
to let the water pour through;
and the shriveled knuckles,
the stones of flesh, the fault lines,
are O’Keeffe’s pink-white cliffs
that once cupped ancient waters
just as devotionally.




hand
(for the divine miss m)

the rocking chair is her Everest.
she will scale it, with or without my
permission or approval.
she’s teetering, though, a knee kicking at air,
so i touch my palm to her foot.
i won’t provide a lift,
but i will be her ledge;
i brace myself
for one last hoist and she turns, sits,
and looks down at me, exhilarated and small,
too small for this.