In Front of Lucy, Our First Mother, My Son Has a Lavish Nosebleed

by Medrie Purdham

Australopithecus afarensis, Natural History Museum, New York

We wait for platelets to cluster, and I think: It’s the other way around. 

I mean, we’re not religious and she’s not the Virgin Mary,

and my boy’s not a wonderstruck urchin in some verdant valley,

host to a serpentine river. It should be the stone mother who, weeping, bleeds –

and the wayfaring boy who stands with a blank face.

Lucy – named for the one in the sky, with diamonds – is a vision.

The small toboggan of her jaw, her ribs and pelvic girdle, are all in pieces.

She tells an osseus story of uprightness and of being found.

I dab at my child’s expressive nose, which, on seeing an ancient mother,

calls, care for me. He signals from his own troubled membranes,

aches for her. I shiver, because every family tree is unbroken. Every one.

Happy, my grandmother thought me kind. She never knew how I

nursed my selfish whims. Everything that ever touched her left her

before she forgot how to mother. She held our family’s latest baby,

singing about shaking dreams from the sleep-tree, the last song she remembered.

She died without me. I die to think of it.  And now it’s me  

singing about shaking dreams from the sleep-tree, the last song she remembered

before she forgot how to mother.  She held our family’s latest baby,

nursed my selfish whims.  Everything that ever touched her left her

happy.  My grandmother thought me kind.  She never knew how I

ached for her.  I weep, because every family tree is unbroken. Everyone

calls care for me.  My child signals it from his own troubled membranes.

I dab at his expressive nose, which, on seeing an ancient mother,

tells a cartilaginous story of all-rightness and of being found.

The small toboggan of her jaw, her pelvic girdle, are all in pieces.

Lucy—named for the one in the sky, with diamonds—is a vision.

The wayfaring boy stands with a blank face,

host to a red, serpentine river. It should be the stone mother who, weeping, bleeds.

My boy’s not some wonderstruck urchin in some verdant valley.

We’re not religious and she’s not the Virgin Mary.

We wait for platelets to cluster and I think, It’s the other way around.