Susan Mason Scott

 

 

Grandaughter

You’re a tarot card not yet dealt,
tea leaves infusing in the womb,
an impression brewing, a whiff of honeyed milk,
a dream. Aren’t dreams like wombs?
Dark and gauzy, the dim entrances—amniotic
eyes—surrounded by an opaque adobe coat,
gourd-shaped like the architecture of Swallows
crossing a sleepy bridge lit by the moon,
you’re a shadow in a crèche, covered with vernix.
When your forehead pushes through
with a stork-bite shaped like South America,
the mark of generations arrives—like a Swallow—
bright as a taillight and wet with dew,
your scent like newly sown soil,
your father swoons for you. At wing-flapping speed,
his arms swoop to embrace you on your nascent path
through the small neck of your mother’s gourd,
a tarot card turns over: THE WORLD
the tint of green tea to your eyes.