Crowning

Lying here on a white bed
I'm covered by a blue towel
in a white room in Tulum.

Through the open arch is
the bath of blue and white
tile whose pattern I have
studied in photo on photo.

Here two dimensions spring
to three, to four, as time coll-
apses.  I attend my daughter
 
in spirit nine months ago as
she perched on the birthing
stool, in that blue tiled bath
pushing a small head through.

                    Through the long dawn
irate jackdaws pierce a sound poem
to roosters.  Dogs and men return 

to their own labour with the slap of
shovels.  Calls cross species tell all.
Telling.  Here we are.  Here.  Now

nine-month-old Ula stands across 
from her mamesi, braced almost 
steady in her playpen, and beams.
 
We circle our bellies in the old
way, simulating birth, calling down 
ancestor women, whirling alongside

the great grandmothers who recede
in the space of a year and re-appear
as we sweep in their wake among
the black-braided women of Tulum, 
ocean rhythm, blue sky on white sand.
 
Truly croned, crowned grandmother, 
I circle the long line of women: daughter
-to-daughter-to-daughter.  Drawn again 

by the weight of love into the spiral dance.  

 
Recurring Dream Doctrine

Night rustles outside our window, murmurs 
and squeaks.  Whimpers follow outraged
raccoon yowl.  Orange and black streak 

across the dark pane I can't see through
into night creatures' world, conjuring
interlaced smells of skunk, mouse, bat 

disturbing our neighbour hound's nose.
Scent leads a trail to territorial war, deep 
enmities nurtured throughout the long 

hours before dawn lifts that velvet cloth to
reveal grey, seeping shade back to clarity.
Daylight cicada notions begin threading a

brightening air.  Dragonflies wing-web 
the pond.  Inside I still dream of prowling
tiger.  Similars, signature.  Like calls to like 

out of time.  Speaking harmonies.  Chords 
lift.  Given so much, we reach for more
even when full.  Over.