by Barbara Schwartz

Your birth mother has the bluest eyes,
as if their color had made her cold, then slowly
numb with pleasure. Attendant to the holy
I offer her hot water, a blanket. Induced, she cries
a flock of spells to the quickening, hexes the squall
in the hallway. Unplugs herself from the wall.

An open gown frames her art. Tattooed thighs,
arms, neck: cupid’s arrowed heart, branching
snakes down her back. Her hair, blood-
red wine. She keeps you dream-feeding
until full. What can I feed you? My words
pour out like milk. She bites an ice cube, curses

the boiling moon. Alive & wailing you turn
from her breast. You breathe my breath.

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Barbara Schwartz is the author of three books of poetry: A chapbook, Any Thriving Root (dancing girl press, 2017); the collaborative collection, Nothing But Light (Circling Rivers, 2022); and the hybrid work, What Survives is the Fire, forthcoming from Alternating Current Press, which was a finalist for the Barrow Street Prize, Alice James Book Award, and a semi-finalist for the Perugia Press Prize. Barbara has chronic leukemia and works as an advocate for children with disabilities.