My mother as the Lovell Telescope
I find her tilted, head up
and listening, ear shaped for the universe.
On warm days I climb the frame of her skirts
just to lie again in her deep cupped womb,
skin soothed by the dah-dah-dits of the sun.
On the face of it she’s a blank sheet
in wait of sound sifting through a black noise
for white notes, a syllabics of stars.
I feel the murmur in her every move,
learn her workings, her subtle pitch and sway.
Listen to the sky waves, she says, listen,
to the pain of everything speaking at once.