Today, 7 a.m.

My breath stains invisible like
a fingerprint. This gentle give and take
is our crime scene. Sometimes it feels
like it is the first time I’ve ever
exhaled. Sometimes I secretly want

children. You tell me I would be
too neurotic a mother. It’s true,
but we could make it work. Dress
a baby in bright shoes and pastel bows.
Sing duets into its tiny ears.

You tap a message onto my spine
that I am afraid to decode. If I close
my eyes, we can pretend I never felt it.
I would dedicate this poem to my
unborn child, but it would be a lie.

I think all poems are secretly written
to our mothers or God or our first lovers.
Anyone who we guess won’t listen.
Anyone who we wish would speak to us
softly, the way they used to.

Hannah Siobhan is a student currently living in Minnesota. You can find more of her work in The Fem and Glass Kite Anthology.

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