By Laurel Fuson

The morning strange but well
done. A comfort: Antiparos, cut
out by a steady hand in dark blue.
I'd stopped at the café for a paper cup
of espresso and driven in
the other direction for home.

The baby was quiet today.
I worried about her future.
Or maybe it was mine. I worried
about falling asleep. Last night
we rode to our Greek friend's house
without completely knowing where

we were going. Then I understood
the baby's tendency
to run toward the top
of the stairs. Why
she isn't concerned about
her stuffed animals' silence
or the constant mystery
of where exactly
peek-a-boo faces go.