Anna Maria Is Coming, or Maybe Thomas Barton, or Max!
by Hilda Raz
New life! Will he toe out like Dolly, like John? Will her eyes be fires?
Blue and green, like Papa’s, the ocean at the shore?
Will she sing in the bath? Play piano in her diapers?
Will her heart leap at large machinery? Will he say, “Dribe dribe,”
to his daddy, entering the tunnel? Will his hair be red? Will her hair curl?
Will her little face have the circumflex eyebrows of her mother? The pointed chin?
Her hair be fair, bright blonde? Will she frown at the light by the river?
Oh, let her head fill with Greek Owls, her mouth with honey wine.
Let his hands cup the keys, the air of the studio filling with sound, the crunch of
cornflakes, the sift of raw sugar on the tongue, the great chords.
And let the parents be fierce forever, Lord, as You are, exacting
price and penalty for Your gifts, so they grow strong and joyous,
blessed by the memory of the black car, open to air,
chosen by a child in token of the power they give over,
their lives in service to new life, the great melt of petals under snow, the green rising.
