Meanwhile

LUCY GRIFFITH 

June 1, 2020

Anthropologists say a mended femur signals

the first evidence of civilization. For

those early humans, a broken leg meant a

lonely, hungry end, unattended.

Now as we isolate,

my cells ache for those alone, fractured,

unprepared. Each breath a skirmish

in an invisible war.

But I remember the smell of lavender

in my daughter’s hair, recall the way

she holds on to a hug with fierce patience,

as if her love demands its own time to travel, skin to skin.

For now, I memorize

the poet who held my face in her hands,

then touched forehead

to forehead, wordless.

I feel the sweet length

of a grandchild, damp with play,

sprawled upon me as we say goodnight

to the moon and stars.

I need to hear the small moans,

breathless gasps

in a room listening carefully

to a poem well told.

Meanwhile, may I do what I can—

as I wait for the world to mend.

Happiest on a tractor named Mabel (a muse of 55 horsepower) LUCY GRIFFITH lives on a ranch beside the Guadalupe River near Comfort, Texas. Her first collection of poems We Make a Tiny Herd was published by Main Street Rag as a finalist in their poetry book contest. Tiny Herd was recently awarded the Wrangler Prize for Poetry by the Western Heritage and Cowboy Hall of Fame. She won the Returning Contributor Scholarship in Poetry for the 2019 Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. In addition, she was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize in 2019.