Marisa Cappetta 2014
Her foot is a page in an atlas,
a map of her birth road.
She is slung in a hammock oriented
between theodolites of twin aunts.
Her grandmothers harvest
long grass along the shoreline
and weave a cradle, dolls with
downy hair, and a birthing blanket.
For the first nine months her father
is a whisper in her ear,
her mother a thunder of heartbeat.
When she is nursed and nuzzled
she sees them as an aerial survey,
or nine patch quilt blocks.
She is a transparency of veins, like roads
overlaid on the contours of her parents.