Three Poems by Laura Grace Weldon

I Dream Of Hubble’s Law

I’m standing in front of my mother, head tugged
while she braids my hair as she does every morning.
I am seven years old, she must be late 30s.
Her lipstick is bright red, her hair nearly black.
Taster’s Choice freeze-dried coffee in her cup,
Cleveland news and weather on the radio.
My baby brother bangs his spoon,
smile-flinching each time it strikes.
My sister and father are at the table, all of us
unaware we’re in my dreamworld,
unaware we are inexorably moving away
from each other the way stars grow more distant.
Stand still she says as she fastens a tiny rubber band
at the bottom of each braid so I don’t turn around
to hug her as I long to in my dream. I want to hang on
for dear life as galaxies move apart ever faster
in a universe widening toward absolute zero.

*

Greenlings

They spring out the door,
compressed by inside rules:
slow down, lower your voice,
put away your toys. They whinny,
canter, jump, barely able to keep
to the confines of boots and coats.
The desire to inhabit themselves
is strong as a stream’s mandate to flow.
In them I see once-wobbly foals
grow into their knees, their power.
Three children radiant
as late winter light through eyelids
I close for an in-breath’s cherishing.
Their greenling calls stir the air, leaping
beyond whatever holds them in.

*

Hang In There

Memory summons the third-grade classroom
poster of a kitten, soft gray and white fur,
front paws desperately clutching a rope.
A silly font read Hang In There!

I tried to avoid looking at the wall
at all because I couldn’t bear
the kitten’s beseeching eyes, could
feel its desperation in my stomach,
my throat. It dangled over an abyss,
its weary claws my hands.

        Men in movies hung from building edges
        or helicopter skids. Any woman in the scene
        threw her hands over her mouth, helplessly
        pretty and pettable. In theaters, people clapped
        when the hero—against all odds— pulled himself up.*

I walk back in my mind to that classroom,
find the poster tidy as the day it was tacked up,
reach in, take that kitten into my nine-year-old arms
where I feel its tiny heart flutter
as it calms, finally, after all these years.

        *Mythbusters episode 138 demonstrated some adults can hold on from
        a three inch ledge for only about one minute, less for a one inch ledge.
        Not one participant could pull themselves up.

*

Laura Grace Weldon lives in a township too tiny for traffic lights where she works as a book editor, teaches writing workshops, serves as Braided Way editor, and chronically maxes out her library card. Laura was Ohio’s 2019 Poet of the Year and is the author of four books.