And One More Mommy

by Tzivia Gover

Hospital gowns, the color of pistachio;
time held aloft in the room where finally

the nurse pulled you out like play-dough
stretched long as an overgrown bean.

"Everything is normal," she beamed,
Not mentioning that I, that one passing

out cigars, am a girl. It's a girl. We are all girls.
How many mothers does it take to make a baby?

Two if they are gay, like we were the day
we drove you home and blanketed you in sun-stripes.
Milk flowed from four breasts. You were thirsty
enough for all of it, for all four arms that held you.

What we did came easily: Clean as a kitchen on Sunday.
Right as the smell of lemon cut open on the counter.

Used by Permission of the author. For author bio and more poems, visit www.tziviagover.com.