When Was the Last Time

When was the last time you felt movement I ask.

And she, only sixteen and battered is
uncomprehending and cannot remember
and cannot look at me,
or at her mother who arose in the middle of the night to drive her to the hospital.

Now in baggy black sweatpants soaked in the
fluid that once protected the fragile life within her womb, now a sepulcher.

And she, only sixteen and battered with the swollen purple halo surrounding her left eye.
She is quiet, withdrawn.

There will be no celebration of birth here,
no sacred blue corn sprinkled on the new babe,
no prayers offered.

And the grandmothers,  lamenting how life has changed, stare deep into the canyons

This young one, only sixteen and battered.

Meanwhile the crystal morning is born. The turquoise blue of an autumn sky glistens over the canyon walls.

Sunlight falls upon the golden cottonwood trees and hawks soar.