Light Years

Your mother has a deep hollow

two finger-widths above her heart,

like someone dug at her with a spoon

and left her scarred.  


The morning you were born (she always smiles

as she tells it) your father and I could not agree

on two names for you. In the end, we gave you

only one – another word for light.


That afternoon (your grandmother puts in),

when my train pulled in, your father

ran the length of the platform,

his face glowing with news of you.


And on they go in the dark, the two of them,

swinging heavy picks at deep veins

of memory, freeing bright scraps 

to pass back, hand over hand.