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.