A Yiddish term mother would drag out
when I was making less then any sense,
quite often in my case, to let me know
I was loved in many languages.
Today I lean into a world may seem
what, aligned with love or death,
a step away from sitting in my lap,
letting me hold what I need to hold?
That would be you, in which one
of your infinite, whirled disguises,
the missing piece, the heart in its
soft, thistled beat, the bleat of fish,
of dog, of goat, here at my feet?