Children throwing their bodies into the surf
while the surf throws its body into the sun.
The rocks, bald plaintiffs gazing on the
meaty throngs of dancing toddlers,
diapers hanging down, their hands pushing
away their mother’s body and her gaze,
coming back to the rocks,
rocking against the cradle of the rocks
until the cradle is a spoon feeding them
the only thing they’ve ever eaten.
The streetcar passing slowly as if
pushing through the scene of a wreck.
In a way, it is. The can’t-be-mothers
eating their sandwiches, eating their burritos,
perched on the grass, hovering at the bench
to watch the tow-heads dip and swerve
and move and miss. The can’t-be-mothers
heads-down in their books, toes in the grass,
the sun in their faces, the patchwork of their
springtime reveries broken by this cloistered scene,
its glorious revolving door shinier
than should be admissible.
There are many false starts in this life.