The divorced mother and her divorcing 

daughter. The about-to-be ex-son-in-law 

and the ex-husband's adopted son. 

The divorcing daughter's child, who is



the step-nephew of the ex-husband's 

adopted son. Everyone cordial:

the ex-husband's second wife 

friendly to the first wife, warm



to the divorcing daughter's child's 

great-grandmother, who was herself 

long ago divorced. Everyone 

grown used to the idea of divorce.



Almost everyone has separated 

from the landscape of a childhood. 

Collections of people in cities 

are divorced from clean air and stars.



Toddlers in day care are parted 

from working parents, schoolchildren 

from the assumption of unbloodied 

daylong safety. Old people die apart



from all they've gathered over time, 

and in strange beds. Adults

grow estranged from a God 

evidently divorced from History;



most are cut off from their own 

histories, each of which waits 

like a child left at day care. 

What if you turned back for a moment



and put your arms around yours? 

Yes, you might be late for work; 

no, your history doesn't smell sweet 

like a toddler's head. But look



at those small round wrists, 

that short-legged, comical walk. 

Caress your history--who else will? 

Promise to come back later.



Pay attention when it asks you

simple questions: Where are we going?

Is it scary? What happened? Can

I have more now? Who is that?