When our mother named you,

our father was on the other end

of the continent, which I’d heard was sliding

slowly into ocean. If you knew

how to speak, I would have told you

not to worry, as our mother did, if he

spiraled to the bottom

of rocky ocean bed. Our father—

he of salt and churning foam,

accustomed to the sea’s

relentless thrust and gurgle—

would not die. Don’t worry

our mother, waiting for him

in a gray hospital bed, holding

all the burst from her

in the dark: many-petaled

you, crying in waves, all the wounds

beginning to open.

Wendy Wisner (NY)  is the author of Epicenter (CustomWords Press, 2004). Recent poems have appeared in Natural Bridge, Crab Creek Review, Pebble Lake Review, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. She was the recipient of the 2003 Amy Award and an Academy of American Poets Prize. She teaches at Hunter College.