& i forgive

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.

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