by Taylor Hamann Los

After the anatomy scan, I dream
I can trace my daughter’s growth
with my fingertips: rings
of muscle and amniotic fluid
and her body curled at my center.

One umbilical artery
where there should be two.
Too much it’s not a problem until it is.

I dream I can write
her a different origin song,
one without drought,
without uncertainty. One with
the fullness of everything green,
more notes than we were promised.

Instead, I’ll sing each stunted verse.
Cup my ear to listen for the tendrils
of her reply. I dream of soil
and water, of moth-ravaged leaves,
and there—suddenly—
the beginnings of a refrain.

Taylor Hamann Los holds an MLIS from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and is currently an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Parentheses Journal, and Split Rock Review, among others. She lives with her family and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos) and at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.