By Tzivia Gover

Hospital gowns, the color of pistachio;
time held aloft in the room where finally

the nurse pulled you out like play-dough
stretched long as an overgrown bean.

"Everything is normal," she beamed,
not mentioning that I, the one passing

out cigars, am a girl. It's a girl. We are all girls.
How many mothers does it take to make a baby?

Two if they are gay, like we were the day
we drove you home and blanketed you in sun-stripes.
Milk flowed from four breasts. You were thirsty
enough for all of it, for all four arms that held you.

What we did came easily: Clean as a kitchen on Sunday.
Right as the smell of lemon cut open on the counter.

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