by Jona Whipple
She kneels at the edge of something, ragged dirt at the mouth of a hole you can’t see. Her arms encircle the bundle like this: One high around the shoulders, the other around the legs, palm hidden under the white bag. It is tied at the top, a crude knot like what I make with the handles of grocery store bags, a shredded tuft. She turns her face into the top of the bundle, where there is the shape of a head, a curve, the shroud pulling softly under her arms. Her lips move, she whispers into the primitive shell of the ear, she speaks softly through the cotton, her hands move, one rubbing softly at the shoulder, the other patting gently at the back of the legs. She rocks side to side, patting, whispering, her arms around this child in a hold like a figure eight, infinity, a hold recognized by mothers worldwide as the safest, the most secure. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 