Her hands are tiny. The size of a tiny bug on a tiny petal.
I can see through them the way I can see through a fly’s

Her hand cups the tip of my pinky finger, barely covering
my nail.
My breath travels to my stomach, my knees.
It is lost.

In the safety of the womb, she was mighty.
In the castle of the womb, she was queen.

Why do you hold on? Why do you fight so?

The corner of her mouth rises.
Her paper eyelids close.
And she sleeps.

Published 2017 Santa Fe Community College Accolades (edited)
Photo Credit Leah Rosenwasser