I remember I have a child, vaguely
He wears a raincoat, tiny pine trees on his sailor shoes
I will have to give him away, very slowly
when winter comes. First one night a week, and then two.
Stars on one ceiling: fishes on another
papa is asleep, I say.
I will always want to touch you I said when he left me.
It won’t happen all at once, he said.
First the closets of his winter coats. I braced myself.
It’s a million little things: his skin, the tongues of his shoes
I should have never given birth. I feel a color
he left in my stomach when I am alone, a shovel mark
At quiet hour I hear his papa and I talking before he was born
Our childless voices, our love over the water
But these woods are made of dry paper;
I was right; I could not give birth without losing
