It's a space only she could inhabit,
the slender distance between my body
and the back of the dining room chair.

It’s a space only she would think to enter,
this only body who has lived inside me,
climbing into this narrow gap,

so close that she has to wrap
her arms around my belly,
her legs around my hips to fit.

We could be sitting on a motorcycle,
faces hopeful in the chrome,
driving out for the first time

testing life as parent and child,
tranquil in this seat
as wind whistles through our hair.

She has no idea what I’m packing
in these saddlebags, no conception yet
of a three-generation hiatus

on love between mothers and daughters
and how far we’re going to ride
to end it.