Someone’s daughter

is standing in a public bathroom
having a miscarriage
with me,
a stranger,
happening upon her at a time when
she wanted her mother,
but accepted a substitute,
calling herself
homeless, raped, sad,
but peaceful, because “God knows.”
She’s sorry for taking my time—
she’ll clean up after herself.
I say don’t you dare
make yourself small
an inconvenience
an echo in pipes
a ghost in these walls.

I wish I was her mother
the voice inside her ears
speaking authority—
erasing shame
building in her a house
not drafty, comfortably lived in.
I become a cup of something warm
at the kitchen table.
I become a golden floorboard
where yesterday’s child can play in a sunspot
until the door opens
and self enters, exhausted but satisfied
from working a full day.

This daughter who is not mine
reaches for a hug, and I
whisper healing words,
words that appear in my mouth
without my brain’s labor,
like a leak in the ceiling
or my eye
a washing
with what appears and seems useful.
I have gratitude in the finding of her,
honored to love her for a few grains of time
in her hourglass.
I am sad but peaceful,
also anchored in the known.

Laura K. Selenka is a freelance writer and late-blooming poet. She lives in the Fox Valley region of Wisconsin with her husband and judgmental beagle. Find her on Facebook at Laura K. Selenka— Poet.