【by Emeline Avignon】

In the afternoon,
babies tried soaking their feet for the first time.
In the rushing river
tiny diapers, bare legs, and little shoes.

Meanwhile in summer grass
bare feet prints are erased.
I continue
without my mother
to ask me what flavor
I would like my birthday cake.

And I felt bad for what I had done—
watching my toes flatten blades of grass.
My mother spent so long away
I had to learn how to allow space
to be the mother she is from birthing me
for her arms to wait then wrap around me
only to be unlatched,
and I, gone, again and again.

In early mornings,
I rinse plates, I make
coffee, take the bus.
I do what is needed to be done.
I add butter and pepper
and harmonize with the song,
in wooden kitchens
across calendars of suns and longitudes.

In the afternoon,
ducks waddle in rows
to later float by alone
pushed by the current
of the river.