the pashmina i bought, brought home
to thank her for cooking, cleaning for you, my two,
pashmina soft, blue, blue and wide, as the little girl
eyes that blinked beneath her over-plucked brows
and pink, paisleys, shaped, as appealing to you,
as her barren uterus, the one that could only expel
unborns, like our never-to-be’s. because i knew sting,
& helped her through miscarriage, again and again and again
loss. failure. cramps’ razor-fear,
dank, brown-blooded hopelessness. o i knew that too.
so i gifted pashmina to warm her on Mother’s Day
the childless womans’ worst of the year, never dreaming.
what plans she had, sparrow, starling, nest-stealer,
for my daughter, with you.