We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
and the gas station and the green market and
Hurry up, honey, I say, hurry, hurry,
as she runs along two or three steps behind me
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down
as she likes them.
Where do I want to hurry her to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her
Honey, I’m sorry I keep saying Hurry—you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.
And hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now, darling, she says
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.