Now, childless, I understand
the distance we must travel

for one cluster of chromosome,
one pocket of protein, to meet

another, four inches away. Still winter.
The branches creak and now,

childless, I understand
why my mother kept my baby

teeth, stained with blood, dropped
one by one into a teacup. Why she kept,

wrapped in tissue paper, shards
of a vase I broke. Why she kept

those white leather shoes, small
as coffins for hummingbirds.

Winter still. The creek branches.
Like a madwoman, the uterus paints

and strips its one small room,
and now, childless, I recognize

seeds cracked in the beak,
brittle tufts caught in chain link,

pounds of gold pollen blanketing
the ice, the river, the road.