I woke to early autumn air, a cold pool
upon which I float in my four-poster bed.
I remain embryonic under the quilts.
I was given this bed, its wooden frame,
the wool blanket, even the ochre sheets.
A friend’s family lent them all to me.
I hope baby Moses was warm in that basket
woven and pitched by his mother’s hands.
Could Jochebed spare a blanket for this desperate
experiment? I hope Moses was asleep, lulled
in his noisy cocoon, until he was borne
to the banks where the princess drew him out.
I’m still in bed, an overgrown infant waiting
to be gathered up. I am my own Jochebed
and know beginnings are by nature
also a severing. You must get up.
And I am moved by an ancient tenderness,
curiosity. Who knows what this day
might bring? So I tear the blankets off,
emerge from the bed, head to the cold
kitchen where I boil the water for coffee.
