she wants grandchildren,
dreams of our bellies
swelling with babies –
her inexplicable daughters
safely sealed in matrimony
and we get cats
get dogs

she sees my first wrinkle
with panic
her time runs out with mine

shall I cut paper hands
for my poems?
pin the pages of stories
to dolls she can hold?
shall I name my notebooks, wrap them in
blue blankets,
bounce them on my hip and
sing them songs?

(an old poem from sometime before my nieces and nephews were born to partially absolve me,  but the questions remain.)