Jen Hawkins

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I withstood a difficult pregnancy. Consented to an adoption. I did not prepare to miss the boy. Did I expect a cloud? Some generic cherub? How did a body conceive what a mind could not fathom? His earlobes, his eyelids, were specific, intricate. I knew him. His voice stuck in me like the sea in a shell. I relinquished a baby, and took on a burning sort of transience.

falling star—
wishing you were
here to see it

There is no explanation for giving him up. I cannot defend a miracle, cannot glorify resignation. The adoption was finalized, but not the conflict. Everyone was some mother’s child, and I could not bear it. Bear this ghost-cord pulled taut at three-hundred miles.

dandelion scatter—
halo
on a long wick

Time passes, as does my longing. Springtime, nightfall, the crook of my arm; these are no longer evidence of loss. The baby grows fat—he outgrows the months and spaces I made hollow. And he fits against his new mother as if he grew there.

north-side moss—
the baby
at her breast