By Rachel Bunting

with your small fast legs, karate-muscled and hairy before I was ready: what will you think? I am a bad mother, too worried about how to mold you to remember not to. No--not bad. I hold your hand, kiss your red elbows, pull gently the gum from your hair. Will I be given allowance? I am a mother after all, and in this world you have too few, even you with so many mothers. We talk about primary families; how I ache to cut yours down to two: me, you. But I play fair, give you your four parents, a half brother (your father's eyes reflected again in someone else's face). We could leave someday, go to Canada, to Mexico, to Belgium. Anywhere--you choose. You choose McDonald's. What will you think? I steel myself for it, the inevitable slur from your sharp mouth--even now, you say girls can't love girls. I have not done my duty. You are a bird, small one, weak wings already stretched to take flight, your clumsy body heavy with hollow bones. I will catch you catch you catch.