LOUISE MATHIAS

Remnant

There was the gale-white surgeon’s lamp,
a man in scrubs.

The dark, derivative afterbirth
of joy, first kin

of deception. Some women cried, handing each other snow.
They couldn’t get their babies back, or didn’t want to.

There is no place for us
to walk towards the light. Nor

the harbored influence of trees.

But I was laid out on the table, see.
With a care that was foreign.  

   Contributor’s notes