Nine months of darkness, then
the sound of scissors and we separate.
I thought I’d love you because you were
part of me, feathered limb of a sumac—
but it was like falling asleep. Something
I did without fear of consequences.
That first night, you made the house
ache with your sadness. Open mouth
of a baby bird, longing. But you took nothing,
the thing I begged you not to take. Something
I didn’t know how to give.