Labor

The eyes of the horse in pain are too deep to fall into.
The sight of a baby’s head between her legs.
The tree is called Betchel’s Crab, flowers like crinoline.

My husband quits his job and cannot settle at night.
When I drive over the pass towards Glorieta
my heart becomes a Baptist.

I want to answer the phone and say “Holy Family.”
At Chimayo I filled my purse with holy dirt
as a Saturday prayer for childbirth.

On Sunday I was putting nickels on Ganesh,
remover of obstacles. The young man is so strong
And loves her ridiculously. On Monday, the baby.

The pansies and dianthus he planted are vigorous
like Telluride, Aspen, Taos, anyplace mountainous.
He is leaning into his car while my daughter naps.

I ask people, “Do I look changed?” and they don’t answer.
The head of the baby against my chest,
as if happiness burst out of my mother’s old heart.

I talk out loud to my mother in her car I inherited.
Tears make driving Impressionist. I pull over
Monet. I weep, Vincent Van Gogh. I rejoice, Degas.

A beautiful dancer is killed on Rodeo Road.
The dust off our pasture dances
as we are in drought.

On Mother’s Day the brown horse has to be put down.
The new father tells me, “Life is so transient.”
My daughter’s breasts in the mirror so full of milk.