She thinks of many things in her preparation to write about infinity
for Natalie Angier
by Grace Grafton
Small and white, hairs from her baby’s head,
she wants to keep them all but
they insist on escape. Clouds
eventually tatter and dissipate. To maintain
memory as though it were a finitude.
The snow keeps falling, it impedes
progress as it tidies up the landscape,
quashes color. Fabric of weather,
lessons of the implacable. She thinks
about bathwater, divisible drops subsumed
in the rushing sound, baby’s soap-slippery
foot, how gradually the baby will grasp
(drop by drop) the relationship of her bath
to falling snow, the rigorous and unknown
calculus her mom – thinking about infinity and
this precious finite entity – must live in.
* * * *
Grace Marie Grafton’s most recent book, Jester, was published by Hip Pocket Press. Six collections of her poetry have been published. Her poems won first prize in the Soul Making contest (PEN women, San Francisco), in the annual Bellingham Review contest, and The National Women's Book Association, Honorable Mention from Anderbo and Sycamore Review, and have twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Ms. Grafton has taught for decades with CA Poets in the Schools, and has been awarded twelve CA Arts Council grants for her teaching programs. Recent poems appear in Sin Fronteras, The Cortland Review, Canary, CA Quarterly, Askew, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Basalt and Mezzo Cammin.