Kathryn Hill

When you're home
from kindergarten,
someone will stick
your palm-print painting
to a fridge,
with alphabet magnets
you have been learning.

They'll see the lines
in red or blue -
uniquely you.
But me too.

A woman kind as Christmas
will tie your hair,
thick like mine,
up in ribbons.
Your mother.

And I don't know how
to say my cells are in you.
That your eyes were wide
apart, and hair in curls -
tight as tiny fists. .

I signed a paper
white as a cot sheet.
And secretly loved
every ounce of you -
still warm from bathing
in my blood.

I walked home
seeing husbands everywhere.
And your milk was leaking
out of me
for weeks.

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