by Adam Gianforcaro

 

Gestation and chamomile flower:
I am my mother again. Notice now

how many times one can near death.
Birth, blood loss, someone else’s sick

pushed through, pushed into.
Which is to say: open window,

wind’s open mouth, a phone call
from childhood. The water is warm

and remains so. I sink into it,
think: womb again. A breeze

from the next room, a scythe
parting the drapery. I have learned

that panic passed down is a form
of survival: the gift of hardening

despite wrinkle-soft fingers. To perceive
far past the drip-drop faucet.

There’s an empty tub when the shadow
steps in, the water scarcely rippled.

 

 

 

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Adam Gianforcaro is the author of the poetry collection Every Living Day (Thirty West, 2023). His work can be found in The Offing, Poet Lore, Third Coast, Northwest Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Delaware.