SHE PURSUES

by Lindsay Preston

You are sweeping your day into the dustpan

when suddenly

palms and knees pit-a-pat

across the checkered canvass.

Startled, you shed the dust.

It descends in the sunbeam

between you and the returned stare

from your own face.

Your infant face.

Tilted upward from the floor,

grinning parenthesis around glossy gums;

speaking in tongues.

On your novice attempt at the language,

she giggles.

Fresh-cut fingernails lovingly claw white stripes

that turn red

on your veined feet.

Backwards you scoot.

She pursues with tunnel vision,

past stove, cupboards, fridge -

to the porch,

tiny hand threading your worn-out shoe,

dragging foot odor like recovered treasure

back to the kitchen.

Beneath the table,

the need that shimmers her blue eyes

is framed in chrome.

No matter where you hide,

she pursues.

Through dust, dirt, fur balls, drool -

Even if you shatter glass

she would crawl through shards.

Turned down mouth crying the pain,

she would plop drenched diaper

on your bare feet,

lift her bleeding hands.