Today you are six months old,
though we never got to count
that far together. Since last summer
I have been trying to be pinker,
tiny palms and noses sewn into the hem of small breasts.
I have been trying to live for half a family, to scatter you
in places you would have never gone. The sun shines
everywhere, I forgot to tell you this—
I couldn’t even convince you that this world
is safer with you in it.
Did you leave because I asked or
was there some flaw?
Was I the flaw?
Did you pick a better mother?
I picked an easier life.
Did you burn your handprint into the asphalt
so that I would never forget you were here?
You were born a teenager. Sometimes
I see you dancing along the curtains,
the leaves in the embroidery.
You are better than I am.
Look at me.
Here is the topography
of my uterus, the leylines drawn
from your unformed fingers.
Here is my leapfrog heart,
still trying to play,
with your nameless weight.