Mamas Promise

　　by Marilyn Nelson

　　 I have no answer to the blank inequity

　　 of a four-year-old dying of cancer.

　　 I saw her on TV and wept

　　 with my mouth full of meatloaf.

　　 I constantly flash on disasters now；

　　 red lights shout Warning. Danger.

　　 everywhere I look.

　　 I buckle him in， but what if a car

　　 with a grille like a sharkbite

　　 roared up out of the road？

　　 I feed him square meals，

　　 but what if the fist of his heart

　　 should simply fall open？

　　 I carried him safely

　　 as long as I could，

　　 but now he's a runaway

　　 on the dangerous highway.

　　 Warning. Danger.

　　 I've started to pray.

　　 But the dangerous highway

　　 curves through blue evenings

　　 when I hold his yielding hand

　　 and snip his minuscule nails

　　 with my vicious-looking scissors.

　　 I carry him around

　　 like an egg in a spoon，

　　 and I remember a porcelain fawn，

　　 a best friend's trust，

　　 my broken faith in myself.

　　 It's not my grace that keeps me erect

　　 as the sidewalk clatters downhill

　　 under my rollerskate wheels.

　　 Sometimes I lie awake

　　 troubled by this thought：

　　 It's not so simple to give a child birth；

　　 you also have to give it death，

　　 the jealous fairy's christening gift.

　　 I've always pictured my own death

　　 as a closed door，

　　 a black room，

　　 a breathless leap from the mountaintop

　　 with time to throw out my arms， lift my head，

　　 and see， in the instant my heart stops，

　　 a whole galaxy of blue.

　　 I imagined I'd forget，

　　 in the cessation of feeling，

　　 while the guilt of my lifetime floated away

　　 like a nylon nightgown，

　　 and that I'd fall into clean， fresh forgiveness.

　　 Ah， but the death I've given away

　　 is more mine than the one I've kept：

　　 from my hands the poisoned apple，

　　 from my bow the mistletoe dart.

　　 Then I think of Mama，

　　 her bountiful breasts.

　　 When I was a child， I really swear，

　　 Mama's kisses could heal.

　　 I remember her promise，

　　 and whisper it over my sweet son's sleep：

　　 When you float to the bottom， child，

　　 like a mote down a sunbeam，

　　 you'll see me from a trillion miles away：

　　 my eyes looking up to you，

　　 my arms outstretched for you like night

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