Art

By Charlene Baldridge

Painted in Renaissance style,
an apple-cheeked bambino hangs on the wall
opposite the table at Quinze.
Alone in the restaurant,
I realize that in all the detritus of a 60-something life,
there is not one likeness of me swelled by pregnancy.

I must ask my middle-aged children to take on faith
the nature and fact of their birth, that I nurtured them
through a miraculously wrought placenta
that carried sustenance to voracious bodies.

When the first birds call in Gubbio,
when the light begins to fill the Medieval window,
I become aware once more of the bells
that clang the hours and the quarter hours all night,
creating a salubrious cacophony that lulls us
as we slip away insensate.

My daughter sleeps serenely with her arms crossed over her chest;
Laura, her dark hair as if arranged by unseen hands.
Slipping in and out of sleep, I confuse her with my sister.
Laura lies beside me; Lynn still inhabits me,
a vibrant presence alive in dreams alone.
I want to feast on them forever, and I will,
just as mother yet watches and delights in me.

We are connected in this way.