A soft bush, the green leaves of its leaves,
the curve of a child’s fingernail, hit
up by the storm, his brush crumbling to the touch-
how did I miss—it’s all I can do
do—for those whom I could not save—but fold
a tough bush from its tangled roots
& turn it upside down as if spawning
for a child in violation. I don’t mind the mud
under the nails, worms my fingers touch
(they fertilize the soil), swarming mosquitoes
crazy (it’s a hundred degrees!),
around my head like a halo of disbelief.
It’s a natural promise I curse. All those weeks
when I asked for a victorious birth.
