for Phillis Levin

When you brush your bristling dark hair,
a bemused look on your face,
I see the whole history of our mothers.

Girlhoods that don't end
but pass from hand to hand
like a bride's bouquet.

Lips pressed to a cross, or a letter,
or another pair of lips, then to a child's forehead.
Then, much later, to a cold cheek.

Clothes whose fashions alter,
but whose underlying forms are composed
of the same warm chemicals.

All of us one body of water
running to other rivers and vanishing.
All of us lovers who,

knowing time will soon expel our freight,
let the alarm ring, thinking only
of another kiss before breakfast.