By Abigail Rudibaugh
Every bone in my body wants to stay
still in this cotton bed sinking
under sheets and expectations.
Thank God for routine, carefully curated,
laid out like railroad ties on the zoo train
we rode around the animals yesterday.
“How do we know where to go?”
my daughter asked as we drifted
through ribbed-leaf bushes and rickety bridges.
“We follow the tracks,” I reply now aware
like the one with kids needing waffles
and yogurt spooned onto their plate
like my husband whose warm kiss goodbye
peels off my half-dangling scales of dread
so I too can tie my shoes and get to work
like the little yeses and loud no’s
and the constant reframing to make sure
the rails stay parallel to what I really need
so we can enjoy this breeze, find those turtles,
see the rainbow in the fountain just for a moment
before we return, a bit more whole, a bit more sure.