A Birthmother’s Catechism
What are you waiting for?
I’m not waiting
What are you waiting for?
A flood like only one other
What are you waiting for?
My last orchard
What are you waiting for?
To be found by design, by desire
What are you waiting for?
The end of shame
Misstep
When I hear a snail’s shell crack underfoot, I flinch at the easy giving way, the fragile shield snapping, pushing into the soft, wet body within. I think of my bedridden father, never sure what broke him. A lamb on an altar, a plea on a falling star, a doctor on call: such feeble charms. With the edge of my shoe, I scrape glutinous shards into the grass, but a stain remains on the cement. It will be gone in days.
