We overcame our mothers
when we were sixteen and without child.
I watched the summers flutter on
A luna moth counting myself lucky
to hit the bulb again and again
to fall away unscathed once more—
We overcame our mothers.
In the back truck-beds of red
Pick-up grinds, where we bade
The same prayers and were protected.
Then we grew up—suddenly,
I was tonguing baby names
Out of joy instead of dread.
I am grateful, for us, to be twenty
To be hopeful for our wombs
To be lovely and plump with miracle.
We overcame our mothers; I hardly
felt the triumph, barely knew the ruse
that when we overcame our mothers,
we lost the our sovereign youth