You Were Given

You were sewed into me, like the initials
Mother fastened to my childhood
sweater.  Even beneath
a pile of scarves and mittens,
the garment remained my own.

You were sealed within—a poking
package wrapped in skin, a growing
tremor, a terrifying wonder—and I was
your living envelope, your
place of origin.

You adorned me, stretched me,
and I was never happier.  But I made
a lonely decision: you would be
given; my arms would scarcely hold
you.  Before then,

we walked among blooming apples:
light green leaves fringed in pink;
discreet and prudent bees; my intentions
never questioned by the lively trees.

I spied a wedding at the pavilion:
bridesmaids and groomsmen smiling,
smoking perfect cigarettes
by the colonnade, pictures to be taken.

I pined to reach and pinch them,  to
stretch their skin and beat them,
to syncopate their laughter
with my wisdom.  But we kept

our cadence and our rhythm, like the rain
that fell as your due date came and went.
You finally appeared—and the rising
river crested—little hidden-to-me girl.

Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left
me wrestling your trace; your vestige
burned where you made the leap
from burdened skies to bent and wild boughs.

Fall arrived.  The park blustered
without you.  Rough oaks hardened
as their bright leaves released.
I bit my lips and tasted flesh torn
by my teeth.  I prayed

for autumn colors to depart
without pity.  I prayed to be like fired
pottery—no cracks, no weakness.
I prayed until an unforeseen reply
rolled toward me,

until an infant cry reached me
and scraped like a shard.
There was a sudden flash and strike;
I shuddered and waited
for the rumble that never came

as, somehow, I asked
the baby’s name.  A tiny hand stretched
forth.  The Mother hushed her parcel
and I spread myself over the stroller
like a faded, threadbare canopy.