Rebecca Foust


at the gorge in Truchas, NM
The stone fit my hand. Like any promise, it had weight
and a hollow you could drink water from, 

or fill with sand. I tucked it inside my vest—baby borne
in a sling, that damp weight on my chest;

the stone was cool and calm, and I felt something flow 
from me into its hollow. 			

The womb is a semipermeable membrane, and an echo, 
a voice that hears what it calls. 

You made me while I made you; nothing is owed. I came
to the canyon rim and saw 

how best to carry you: I let the stone go.