If the pen could capture the sound of your voice,
would it draw the sky for me? Moon and Sun?
The sky as seen from a Babel unfinished,
gray light across naked stone?
Or the sky reflected in water, deviative,
clouds rent by concentric echoes?
Would it draw the sky as she sees it?
Would it draw the face of an angry god,
finger stretched forth, accusatory,
at the child who is barely a woman, and who
discovered love in an apple’s flesh?
The guilt of mothers lays heavy as sin
across the shoulders of daughters.
