—IT’S PRETTY HARD TO EXPLAIN

 

Superstitious

 

We had an earthquake baby 

though nothing rocked.

I took her from your thighs and 

swaddled her as the nurse instructed.

You looked bruised yet beautiful,

like a boxer never meant for the ring.

When I whispered her name,

a flock of doves flapped before landing

outside a windowsill that wasn’t there. 

Oh God, the moon it stood full-frontal, 

pregnant and blue like a bouncing 

ball she would have hopped on.

Her first word was a chuckle, a burst of 

air that sent the starlings abuzz.

I had no duty whatsoever, so I picked 

a leaf from a tree that wasn’t there 

in the hospital room. I kissed it twice, 

for luck, because two was supposed 

to be her favorite number.