On a Denver Bus

Out of the cold Christmas streets 
we climb to an old woman 
raising her scarfed face to us, 
scarred and hollow-nosed, 
lowered at the shock in our eyes. 
“What happened to her face?” 
over and over from my daughter. 
I ponder birth, burning, 
frostbite, and the ice in a city street 
crackling under the burden of rubber, 
and hear someone’s words 
that ice splits starwise, 
then utter the cry: 
Make us whole 
from the confusion of this face, 
the face reflected 
in every bus window.