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,
flickering, far-flung,
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,
dragging heavy
with your nameless weight.