When I was giving birth to my daughter,
my mother was riding on my shoulders.
She would pull me up and choke me down,
she would press hard on the carbon paper.
I would look at the fresh child in the long nights
while she slept and I couldn’t—
when we locked eyes at my breast,
I was once the suckling one.
And look how that turned out.
Walking with my daughter in my chest
on the hills of windswept San Bruno
in that first early fall. Coming to terms.
Low clouds sailing by
like caravels in the storm.
Looking above for reassurance and seeing
those loaded clouds—ominous, ominous.
I would kiss her head and wonder:
How is this going to turn out.
First appeared in Penstricken, Summer 2025