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.