“But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart.” – Luke 2:19
moving, pushed against
my ribs, and I pushed
back. We exchanged
our first conversation,
just my skin between
your hand and mine.
We spoke our first
nursery rhyme, sang
our first hymn. I breathe
every memory—not
of visitors or gifts but
what happened before,
after, in between. You
were hungry. I moved you
to my breast. You slept
on my chest, your head
beneath my chin,
every part of you new.
I never knew you better,
touched your toes and eyes
like you were ever mine,
your breath milk-sour,
hovering like incense
in the air.
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