Incubabies

Two months too soon Two cries in the night Two weights from the womb We grow we feed Milk teeth young gums seething Each waving ten little claws Just enough strength to applaud Our 40-year-old 5 feet and 1 And-a-half inches Mom Incubabies Little temperature regulated By Mr Edison, Con She'll hold her sons Her hand in a glove And a song on her tongue Reverent melody In her own mother's memory Rising Finding its rest in the wreck Of the old dredged-up tule marshes Seven then meant family Past the valleys and gatherers The Volkswagen roared Blood of the orange tree Running over Yosemite's feet And under the door So Mama sang Finger to each little hand Seven long weeks before We were meant to be born Though her mothering was Far from premature