Saliva is dirty
I tell Anali in the back seat
She sits quietly after having spit in her hands
trying to reconcile the filth of her saliva
with the universal cleaning power of the driver’s
I follow the road and
I wonder if she will ever have the urge
to use her spit to clean her children’s faces
reasoning her mother-mouth substantially cleaner than
the blueberry smear dried to the baby’s chin
Mothers are
instinctual tongue-scourers
like birth-weary mares or barn cats
I consider the indifferent sow in the fairyard stall
sucked dry by her crop
only she do I struggle to picture with the urge
to scoop her offspring back into her womb
or to latch her newly-weaned –lets back to her breasts
No, she and I are different sorts of mothers, I think
I peek at my silly saviors in the rearview mirror
and I want to hold them as tight as our bones can withstand
Parking, I conclude no beast can out-instinct a human mother
with a recently vacated womb
though some will try
