the letters

and later came the day

the letters


they sleep curled up in my hands.  they wake before i do,
climb up on my pillow—wake up, they whisper—wake up 
it’s time.  this is my dream—are they 
lonely for someone? do i have 
what they need? 
			yes,
they are lonely.  in sleep they call, 
they call out my name.   i hear them, come with us,
come with—like children, they want me, and know they are mine,
but i am the one who belongs to them.  belonging,
they tug at my ear, my need, their need.  i know
what they need.  someone says
write what i say,

and i do. 
		but there was the long, wondering time 
not knowing—who i belonged to, whose mother 
i was; i thought i’d already lost 
the children i’d never had, though wendy 
came in a dream, the tow-headed boy, 
in a vision—ten, and six.  dream-children, my dreams.
the others, i hadn’t met, not yet. the long, hungry time, need 
every day, this need for what? year after years 
writing i want a letter 
from god.  the long, dry time i waited 
and waited, the letter i thought…