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FURTHER READING
Poems by Michael Redhill
Phases
Poems About Birth and Parenting
A Woman Waits for Me
by Walt Whitman
Acrobat
by Elise Paschen
After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
by Galway Kinnell
Before the Birth of One of Her Children
by Anne Bradstreet
Central Park, Carousel
by Meena Alexander
Curriculum Vitae
by Lisel Mueller
Daughter-Mother-Maya-Seeta
by Reetika Vazirani
Goodnight Moon
by James Arthur
Honey
by Arielle Greenberg
In a Landscape: IV
by John Gallaher
Infant Joy
by William Blake
Lost in thought, the baby
by Rebecca Wolff
Morning Song
by Sylvia Plath
Motherhood, 1951
by Ai
Shoulders
by Naomi Shihab Nye
The Difference between a Child and a Poem
by Michael Blumenthal
The Mother
by Gwendolyn Brooks
The Sick Child
by Robert Louis Stevenson
To My Mother Waiting on 10/01/54
by Teresa Carson
Tract
by William Carlos Williams
Wedding Album 1977
by Tess Taylor
With Child
by Genevieve Taggard
You Begin
by Margaret Atwood
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Gods

 
by Michael Redhill

The gorse-edged trail, the path up through sheep laurel and sedge
by the lake, and then up again through the meadow and remnants
of orchard and mill. Nine-months pregnant, you leaned back 
into shadow under a russet-thick apple tree, then on after that 
to the edge of the pine forest, the signs promising
a circle back to the parking lot. Still later, a steel bridge brought us 
over the river, the water bursting against the mesh-encased blocks 
buttressing the tracks that once went to Waterford and Kitchener, 
and here there was another road and we were lost. We'd arrived this way 
in another summer, and gone down to water. I remembered that time--
I didn't know if I loved, or was loved, but now that felt like the past.

Climbing to the road, gleaming and ravenous, you fell into a café chair,
I went back for the car. Over the river, the bridge, ancestral memory
of a train going past, a hint of doubt, then forest, then meadow, running
because the baby could come at any time. Then orchard and mill, and why
did I stop to look at the old stones, the dead shapes close
to the ground saying something about what they'd been used for? Why
did I lie down where you had, now the sky different, the light different? Although
the flowing reek of apples was the same, the flattened shape 
in the grass. It was as if that old other part of my life was over, 
and I was here to remember it, the way we'd been. Like that dead family 
who ground grain here and fed carrots to the horses, and turned 
that great wheel we thought probably fit into a groove in the side 
of one of the crushed walls, and baked, and made love, and there was 
no city below them, and nothing above them but the sky and its gods.

December 1998







Reprinted from Light-crossing with the permission of House of Anansi Press. Copyright © 2001 by Michael Redhill. All rights reserved.
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