Here, in the backyard, beyond
the clothesline where I hang
my sheets, my eyes are drawn
to the dwarf,
the orphan apple tree,
one arm bent to her chest
its fingers clawed
her young spine crooked
as the country road
where I found myself
walking a nursery
with empty arms
and I thought
you could buy
another woman’s work
another woman’s child
but, this is a blossom
that’s not for sale.
And now gray tumors,
blotches on her skin
in April’s wind a hymn
Why me? Why me? Why me?
the only song she knows.

Photography by Rogiro

Photography by Daniel Goude

Baby poems

She wonders if they dream,
mind being stacked, is it primal
the way their fingers
cling to her own
how they tongue the air,
hungry to nurse?
Every sound startles
them, even her dog
sleeping in that chair.
Such tiny fists and feet
how often
she finds first lines,
scraps folded, little white socks
petals on her desk.
She feels guilty,
but she can’t rock
them all, and feedings
are howls and peeps.
it’s enough to make sure
they’re not soiled.
Yes, they’re fatherless,
but they all have names,
and it’s been years
since she’s dropped one.
A few have started to lose
weight, others are clearly tired,
working hard to breathe.
Holding them
now and then, well
it’s just not fair.
Mornings, nights
she hears them all,
on tiptoes,
she enters their room,
but before the curtain’s tied back,
before her pen’s raised,
before she dares
touch even one
she washes her hands.