Creases

It's too early to tell, once folded,
how deeply the heart will wrinkle.

I'm going to visit my mother
in a dress too large for dancing,

the anonymous body hiding
a small child in its creases.

I know the mind remembers
where it came from, broken twigs

retain the shape of trees that
made them; winds or squirrels

to blame.  Who never taught
the girl to dance or fall gracefully,

to lie beneath the feet that bend her?

In a dress too large for folding,
her hands curled lightly resting

like a blanket on an unmade bed,
the daughter's bones a perfect copy

of a prayer, the kind you whisper.