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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 1, March 2015

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Dorothy Mahoney
Windsor, Ontario, Canada


birthing

Someone is trudging up a mountain with a plastic baby. There are other things in the sack, sealed tubes of cream, a bottle of water, an apple. Perhaps today she will be home. Yesterday the hovel was empty, inquiries bounced back from the rocks. Yesterday a dog followed her halfway, wary, from a distance. She talked to it even after it was no longer there. Your mother knew, she said. Your mother licked you and licked you. Your mother didn't use cow dung on the umbilicus. Didn't use motor oil. Didn't use turmeric. She rehearses what she will say.

sun
on a cold stone
my bare hand warms yours

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