I was a sleepless child
and sang to the mother of sleep,
cajoling her gift to wake in me.
The rocking horse creaked
in its stall in the attic,
and I would begin to rock,
hands tucked between my thighs.
My brother held me.
He told me that baby chimps rock
when they long for affection.
I sighed and snuggled deeper,
thought he was my father.
Surely he is tired of penguins now.
Flocks may rock but cannot fly.
The Danes hug him to their land
like one of their own eskimoes.
His letter falls like a tired gull
and grieves under my bed.
Maybe he is lost.
Maybe the white wings of Greenland
But her wings are always folded.
The waves scrape against her icy breast
as she broods his soul in the night.