It’s not hard to imagine: my ancestor—a dry season,
dust like chalk on her tongue—mixes
spit with clay,
traces a river on rock. Next day: rain.
Why shouldn’t she believe
in the power of rock and her own hand?
I carry this need for pattern and rule, to see connections
where there aren’t necessarily any.
After my first miscarriage,
I cut out soda, cold cuts.
After the second, vacuuming and air travel.
After the third—it’s chalk and spit again. I circle rocks,
swim the icy river.
And when my son is born, he balances
the chemical equation that is this world.
Logic is my son’s kite, good so long as you have
something heavier than hope
to tether you.