See the pretty mothers
casual in shorts, shirts with signs
of messy snacks—they scoop up
little legs and tummys
making deposits into swings
this is their turn
not mine
not yours
We didn’t mourn you,
we didn’t name you,
not until the scare
and the relief of being without
did I know, you
were lost to possibility
I borrow them briefly. Friendly
mothers smile under-slept
We play a game, any game
without threat of attachment.
Mothers pack the weary away
I walk home
How should I miss the shadows
in the park
the place you never made
with our other two?
There is always a last baby
a last physical stretch of purpose
but not you
and not me
We don’t allow
second thoughts to creep
into the bed, across the pillows
We wake, make the day, settle
into the night, and open the window
hearing the breath of the dark
understand–it was a practical decision
without malice, and only occasionally
a second thought
In another time you might have been
followed, more in the middle than the ends
and we would have known
it all with another turn