Novices
Rocker
Radio Edit
Dark road Dark swath of sky visible behind scraggly
darker trees Here we are in the car going home
as I realize we will never be younger than this Son your clothes
are pocket-sized Are marked nb for newborn That’s
how large you are Present and born but new You
fashioned us into parents so all three of us are novices
My prayer for myself in helping you forward
toward months is Let me be nimble Let me be dexterous
I have seen mothers manage the props and machinery
before them with one hand and with ease I will get
even better I say it to you as a promise but it is my wish
But by the time I can germlessly maneuver you
from car to gas station restroom changing table
you will be sturdier and moving Already your newborn
onesies are tight They stretch to keep you in their grip
Slippery fish flinching and growing within a pelican’s bill
I guess the new rule is whatever we master we must
leave behind I guess the new rule is we never master
much and I guess this rule is older than trees Old
as the seeds the stars came from
Babies fatigue hangs so easily from your faces
making of your lower lids heavy hammocks
And then when you wake ta da
Smooth pond New sheet pressed and pulled taut
along a pillowtop
This scares me How fragile you are How
lightly you are here but how solid you feel
in my arms
Each day you are more here More of you is in
you here I imagine that as you sleep your
self rises within your body
There are things you like and things you do not
Nakedness is good Sweet potato is
good New houses
are bad for two minutes and then they are
good Your nursery is good Your crib is bad
if you startle while I lower you into it
Its slotted rails will keep you as ribs enclose
their heart You the heart
I lift and carry against my body to the crib
in the dark The heart I practice putting down
placing into your own bed
Every night I pace with you into sleep
Sometimes I am half-asleep or whole-asleep
sitting in the rocker
These are the unmoored times This is time
with its leash loose and flapping This is the earth
stripped of its seasons contextless
Spring rushing into summer but today
through the window snow
by which I mean the meandering thoughts of
the neighbor’s cottonwood What month is it
becoming child What day
Who will you be tomorrow When will I care again
about who I become It’s not that I am purely unselfish
honey I sometimes long
for horizontal sleep But for now all I know
how to talk about is you
All beauty contains one thread of sadness
Is this true
In the blue darkness of morning: aloneness
In the gauzy field-fog: ghosts of playfulness
In the smoky ballad already sad: frayed edges of the voice
flicking out from the body and returning full of silence
In the wet coat of the dog who the pond turned into a seal: limitation
In the apple orchard: light and flies
Hannah Stephenson is a poet, editor, and instructor living in Columbus, Ohio (where she also runs a literary event series called Paging Columbus). She is the author of In the Kettle, the Shriek, and her writing has appeared in The Atlantic, The Huffington Post, 32 Poems, The Journal, and Poetry Daily. You can visit her online at The Storialist (www.thestorialist.com).
