ghazal for the child we cannot make

by Kate Barss

calling a name to make a new one, this birdsnest need of ours.

i’m homesick for your rolling fat and muscle, bellied of ours.

your whispered crinkles hers, jagged constellations mine. your dough

texture. your feral grief, your slow comfort, made bodied of ours.

white scratch of wicker, the bassinet, wrapping flannel linens

of legitimacy, blanket of mom’s dovesounds, reed of ours.

at dinner the ache of you, straight couples talk about the mesh

of two. you would sleep between, breath of our chests, babied of ours.

ursula, gena, ai, ju, something of our father’s mother’s –

something private kate. you’ll grow flat, worried flax and seed of ours.