Deaf to high school Shakespeare
and geometry, distracted by
tender breasts and hunger.
I peer through the chalkboard
and see you giggle at the sun as I
push you on a swing in a playground
full of real children,
real mothers.
I hold you sleeping
and say a prayer
for each damp curl
tickling my chest.
Wishful thinking.
I name you secretly
in the darkness,
imagine you have my eyes,
his cleft chin.
Whisper lullabies in the shower
hiding the words of my sadness
beneath falling water.
Afterward, in defiance
I say your name aloud,
scream it without a curtain
of rushing water.
Too late.
I no longer feel tenderness
or hunger. Yet
because you were not born
I ache
like a real mother