Robin Silbergleid

There are days I hear nothing
but the steady gallop
of a child’s heart, the lines
on the printout like footprints
at slow tide. Their mothers
resent me, my hands
inside their bodies the way
my mother scooped innards
out of Sunday chickens. But after
I cap their babies in pink and blue
the fathers take pictures and there
I am, part of the family, smiling.
I wonder when they tell the story
if they remember my name.
I wonder if they remember
anything but the shape of my hands.

 
 
 
 
 

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