Motherhood

 

One afternoon I mistook a young swan,
dipping his head, for a large turtle rolling

over and over—water, sun, water, sun—and
the sadness returned.

My stomach, seeming at a distance, filled.

I wonder now if this is how a mother feels
when she loses a child,

a miscarriage, or when she first abandons
the shopping cart and the kid’s fingers

stay glued to the rail, voice blending
with all the others.

I like to think that this is how it is, that the day after
the shooting, the mother and father swans

are still searching for their lost young
among the reeds.

I like to think, as her, that I would.

 

 

Share

Leave a Comment