The temperature drops,
and their heartbeats slow,
so the sea’s ebbing body gives them up.
With every swell
a new scattering of jellyfish, tentacles
frozen stiff. Clots of seaweed,
clams coated in ice. Still starfish.
I gather the unmothered in my arms.
I can find more of everything,
stranded on the sand.
I can hear sea lions call out
from cavernous caves.
Infinity is Full of Poppies, Not People
The nurse shows you a baby that is not yours. You tell her,
There’s been a mistake. That you are counting down the days
until you’ll meet your daughter. Your beautiful baby, coming
any day now. Listen. This is just what happens to seeds. A seed
is a little plant that has not yet started to grow. A seed needs
many things to grow. Food, and water, and sunlight. You can
plant seeds yourself. You can plant them in eggshells or tin cans
or painted flower pots. Some seeds grow slowly. Oak trees grow
very, very slowly. But some seeds grow fast, pushing up and up
and up. You don’t remember your body giving her up feet first.
Reaching down and feeling her toes. But you remember that
underneath all those big sounds were very little sounds: new leaves
growing on trees, and birds building nests, and laying eggs in them.
You remember the blooming wildflowers, the cow and her ringing
bell, the mice scampering into the warm barn. The twitch of their
tiny tails. You remember that infinity is full of poppies, not people.
And the rabbit in the pasture. You remember her, too. She was
munch-munching on lettuce leaf. She was wearing the face
of someone you love.
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