“…the doctor revealed that the patient
had been carrying twins…”
—Jerry Reisman

You saw him turn away
from the future beginning
beneath your ribs, a conversation
that remained unspoken
by both of your pens, and so

I imagine the slant of light
through a basement window
cold as his eyes, the only sound
besides your numb voices: a faucet
dripping in the next room.
Did it hurt to inhale as you left both

of them, your windpipe scraped
by consonants unused,
their metallic taste filling
every tire swing and sandbox
that the train window offered

back to Blackhawk Island?
I picture you arriving to an afternoon
heavy with the fragrance
of cherry blossoms

like this one I have
reading a poem you wrote
to his child birthed
by somebody else

a poem of cattails and black-eyed Susans
written in a cabin beside a river
that pools and rises, floods its banks
every spring.

Shoshauna Shy has had six poetry collections published and a wealth of award-winning fiction. Her poetry has been studied in college classrooms, recited in church sermons, translated into Chinese, discussed by book clubs, made into videos, and produced on the backside of city buses. She lives in Madison.