For Honorée
The seven in the wooden number puzzle
is out of its place.
On the table, next to the silver bowl
it has never looked so little or so cold.
The rest of its mates nest snugly in a tray
they go from zed to nine like time.
But seven's not within, seven is alone
and motherhood is also herding home
the cells and bits of that and this
to where they make sense, are one
in the eye of the storm of my monster
particular, conscious, vehicular scatterer,
twenty-pound prancer and owner
of kissable shoulders.
Her favorite number is eight
and maybe she just made a place
to curl up beside it in seven's bed,
remembering a time when she could.
