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.