Calls on a highway home from her evening shift,

where she sells clothes rich in silk and cashmere.

Last year, I had a miscarriage. Her voice is thick

with Kentucky, faith in her husband, her firstborn,

and miracles. It turned to cancer. Her body loved

the tumor, she says. Loved it so much her belly expanded

and softened, warmed to the growth like it was her second

born, like it had ten fingers and tiny nails, and would grow

to say I love you before bedtime, and stamp its hands

in cement like we had on our grandma’s driveway years ago.

Full of longing and desire I know why she adored those cells.

From my seat at the window I see a dark night.

My breath on the window cools from the outside in.

 

I watch the snow pile.

I watch my small clouds disappear.Kristin Collier is a poet and essayist living in Chicago where she teaches high school English. Her most recent essay “Becoming Acquainted with Rocks” was published in Barnstorm Literary Journal. She holds an undergraduate degree in English from the University of Michigan and a graduate degree in Education from Lehman College in New York City.