You want to hang your head in your own toilet,
to feel the luxury of that aloneness. While heaving

you wonder how you’ve not thrown him up yet and 
know that’s not how it works… Instead, your car is pulled

to the shoulder for the second time in twenty minutes,
your head in a tiny trash bag— the kind to fit a miniature

bath-side receptacle. One that would barely hold an
empty paper roll and two pregnancy tests. Two,

with their lines intersecting. Those which once
were apart and perfectly parallel, as if they

would never meet. Or so you were told. 
                        

I did not become a mother when 
you were born. I did not become 
anything! 

Becoming a mother was like milk 
into butter— whip thickened by 
friction and time to another. 
                        

You were born at first snow.
In fact, you were so blue, the sky broke. 
Open and white like the moon took a cue 
from her own tide—a slip down the last slide. 

Before you came through, I thought you were a tree
that had grown roots—resigned and reluctant 
to be unglued. You, at forty-two weeks were 
unmoved when the whistle blew…

A chord could not describe the connection, 
you were entrenched in the trench as if one with 
reflection. I thought it would take a constellation

or a resurrection to eject you, and that’s
when I knew. First blush of cold 
would be your cue, baby blue.