by Doris Lynch
Before I was born, my parents rolled
your clay in the translucent ether
but like a sea urchin you
spurted away from them.
During girlhood I cut you into
pristine wedges, rags to catch
menstrual blood but you changed into
a stream and cascaded away.
Later, while lovemaking, I propped you
on a pillow but my hipbones slashed
your lunar flesh and you jerked away.
When I gave birth, you duplicated yourself
and became breasts spurting milk, but
when I looked up, both you and baby
had disappeared. Now I search the night
sky for sign of you but find only small relics,
cold to the touch, barely bright enough for eyes.
Doris Lynch has recent work in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Tipton Poetry Journal and in the anthology Cowboys & Cocktails: Poetry from the True Grit Saloon. The Indiana Arts Commission awarded her three individual artist's grants, and she has worked as a librarian and an Ivy-Tech creative writing instructor.