Thin the slung chain,
silky slack, infrangible;
blood beads heavier than water.
Birthed we are like Russian dolls,
one from another from another,
mother, daughter, granddaughter,
red smudges on each cheek.
You stand at the open window
being never too happy in your own
time & place as she is always,
straddling blowsy branches, singing.
I bend between, frisking marjoram,
twisting in weedy aisles a breathing
space. The bright links burn on my neck.
From HEARTWOOD (Caxton Press, 1989)
© Bernadette Hall