[Of what's missing, I do not need a reminder]
       

Of what's missing, I do not need a reminder,
nor the sage-old advice to meditate,
empty my brain, love
what is absent and cold.
What's bleak is snow.
What's bleak is no.
The womb almost on empty,
like the gas tank running low.
We left the ocean for the farmland
to buy a house for a baby,
but the baby never arrives.
Forget the tiny socks in a grocery sack.
Forget the circadian blue skies.
To cope, I thought we'd get a couple of goats—
the kind that are small enough
to carry—the kind that never cry.

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Copyright © 2020 Meg Shevenock All rights reserved
from The Miraculous, Sometimes
Conduit Books & Ephemera
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission