I.
To my sister’s birthmother-- 

You gave birth to six children, 
three of them still living— 
One stillborn                   (a girl without breath),
one boy, gone shortly after birth. 

              The other, your daughter, gone in 
               her twenties, 

a thing inside her skull with jaws— 
First she was quiet, then she was still— 
               I wonder what the sins of your father
               must have been like for three of your
               children to be taken: 

​Your genealogy  
is of wolves,  
your father  
and his father,  
men with a hunger and sharp  

teeth— 

Had you stretched out your 
hands, lifted up your face, 
would this all have passed as 
                                           waters gone by? 

If I could pass your heart between 
us, perhaps I could feel your sense
of loss, those who entered your 
bloodstream and remain there even  

now. I don’t have to have the  
blood to feel the  
same yearning--

II.

To my sister’s birthmother— 

You say you live in Roanoke now— 
              I don’t know where that is, but I understand 
                            why you couldn’t go on living in the  
                                        old house 
after— 

You tell me about your new grandchild 
              (a girl this time) and I feel a sense of 
                            kinship to her (although we share no blood), 
                                            this child I will see many photos of but 

will probably never meet— 

You say your ex-husband (the father of your daughters) 
              has moved to California, and I wonder if the distance 
                            will help him forget,  
                                           help him move on, 

minimize the guilt— 

I know we have nothing in common now, 
               both of us widows of the thing that brought  
                             us together— 
                                           What I want to say, but won’t: 

One day, when I’m different and grown 

and made entirely of reassembled cells, 
               I’ll go searching for her, but I won’t find her 
                             among the small mammals and the topiaries.  
                                           There will be no garden bench to sit on, 

no seed or tallgrass surrounding a cemetery stone.  

Even still, I won’t forget the color of her bones— 
              I’ll remember that I don’t have to see chrysanthemums 
                            and orchids to know the papering of words and that I (we)
                                           have too many things to love about January to  
​
let the cold come between us— 
Kristin LaFollette is a writer, artist, and photographer and is the author of the chapbook, Body Parts (GFT Press, 2018). She is a professor at the University of Southern Indiana and serves as the Art Editor at Mud Season Review. You can visit her on Twitter at @k_lafollette03 or on her website at kristinlafollette.com. 
header: Brett Sayles via Pexels