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.