My Daughter Was Born Blue

by Bethany Jarmul

& silent. The cord that had kept her alive, 

wrapped three times around her neck. 

I don’t know why this happens—

the image returning to me now, 

while I’m watching golden leaves spiral, 

while she’s tracing Zs or coloring clouds 

or singing melodies at preschool. 

My entire life is a series of almosts, 

potted in terracotta—miniature cacti 

lined up on a window sill,

growing blossoms beside the glochids.