Shannon K. Winston

C

After Claire Wahmanholm

Child, what did I know about being
a mother just last October?

C, as in chai—the drink in my hand,
chilling. Cinnamon, cloves.

Fall cresting with winter. Crawl closer,
child. The beginning of everything is small—

C, a sound like a seed—
C, caramel smooth. 

Child, what do you want to know
about your birth mother? 

We met in a diner off the turnpike
that November. Cadillacs and Chevys 

cruised out of the parking lot, 
heading west towards Chicago—

the city where I grew up.
Lake Michigan’s waters chilled 

my calves. Alone on the beach,
I had shivered. Could I love hard enough 

to be a mother? Clementines, cashews,
candy corn—the things I recall 

from my childhood. In your crib,
you curl into a cocoon. 

C is not how you begin the word seed,
but the beginning of everything is small. 

Coo with me, child.
Conspiring in the night, 

we watch constellations.
Cradling you, I crack open.

Back to Issue XV…