A Mother Writes To Her Unwanted Baby

The timing of the word `blessing' missteps, trips over minute and hour hands. The unwelcome must leave a note on an open door and slip away. There are no apologies only shelved claw marks. The infant is smuggled away, snuggled into an older bosom. She writes: I need to name you. The name I gave you before you disappeared inside my eyes seems all wrong now. The letters were enzymes in a Petri dish. Later I could see clumps of words coagulating, but now I cannot speak them. Long ago “it" was your name. now everything goes quiet inside me. I have been sewing tight a womb made of long-evening shadows. I feel less confined, more blessed by the flavor of you. The blessing.