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.