What Kind of Woman

by Kate Baer

No one on this entire earth cares more about your life than you.

Four children have passed through my body and still here I am, asking for your hands on my hips, voice in my ear.

In bed they sleep like corpses until the morning, when the children sing a resurrection song.

For now just remember: birds sing, babies cry, and no matter the weather, every morning is new.

There are many poems about the seasons, less about the time it takes to bury another child.

There is no remedy for a bad haircut or ruined love like time.