I was not dressed correctly when
motherhood interviewed me.
I wore flat shoes and a passport.
My knees were pearl handles,
my mind, on and off like static.
But I got the job.

I understood childhood, but
in an unbroken nostalgic way.
Learning on the job,
pregnant at graduation.

I wanted nothing more than
to climb inside myself and read
a prayer in your ear before the earth’s
air reached you like music.

Sheltered, you grabbed
my heart without mastery.
The first time I held you, it was
the second time
your whole body was sewn in me.

Training was illegible tears.
I made a eulogy to motherhood
who swallowed me
whole, lightheaded with fatigue.

On your first birthday, a heavy
exhaust blew out that one candle.
You spin backwards like wool
on a loom, and become the mother
you raised.