I stand in the kitchen slowly unloading the dishwasher
waiting for the water to boil
to brew the coffee and sit
and wait for the Spirit
who comes
sometimes.
Or is always there and it's just me
who sometimes shows up.
She labors to deliver her son already
dead by a tangled cord.
The name she felt an urgency to give
him just a few days ago will now
be whispered in grief as
a new kind of longing is born
in their hearts.
The cold in Nepal is made worse
by the shortage of heating gas
cut off by the conflict with those shivering on
the other side of the line.
The border is barbed with violence and bureaucrats
hostile to the hope of those who
risk the journey long to hold each other in.
Clara leaves the same hospital
swaddled and held tight in love -
into this melee of a world
where the Spirit labors for each of us
and broods over the cup, the border
and the dishes yet to be loaded.
We will all be clean.