I carry my daughter up the stairs,
her sleeping weight in my arms,
no longer hers or mine, sinking
into the tambourine of my bones.
It’s this light off her eyelids I love,
more shadow than light, shadow
off water, off some luminous
thing yet unnamed.
How joyful to know she’s here,
full moon asleep in night’s cradle,
her breath drifting over my face
as over primordial waters.
I know she could do anything.
She pins the stars to their place
in the sky, shapes mountain ranges,
fills craters with diligent dreaming.
Look how she’s etched
her own image onto my heart,
how she’s filled the empty
caves of this life with purpose.
Romana Iorga’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in the New England Review, Poet Lore, Salamander, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, American Literary Review, and PANK, among others. She has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Minnesota and is an Associate Editor at The Rupture.
© 2020, Romana Iorga
Halfway Down the Stairs 