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, the 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.