No, I know it was September.
Did she cry on the way home from the hospital,
or was she a quiet bundle that slowly rose and fell?
When you looked out the window,
what did you see?
Leaves still unfurled,
was the scenery curdled by
an early winter--
Roads winding ice rinks,
the trees ragged, malnourished.
All of it never comparing to home.
Two seasons, coconut trees never changing color.
It does not matter.
For a person who did not exist yet
as an embryo in the womb--
That is too many questions to ask.
he left you home alone with your firstborn.
What did that feel like,
holding the harvest of your womb in your arms,
Leaves burgeon and fall,
moon waxes then wanes.
Maybe you were relieved your
period would come again,
something other than life would
come from the space between your thighs.
All of it, your sobs too,
the sounds of continuous change,
the odd comfort in
knowing nothing lasts forever.
Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Fauna Quarterly, Algebra of Owls, The Commonline Journal, Dirty Chai, Yellow Chair Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and many others.