She stands, arms

outstretched under

fluorescent lights,

holding up

the empty shorts,

the t-shirts and tanks.

Her mother-eyes focus

on what is not there,

gauging the cloth’s

ability to hold, to hug,

the ones she loves.

Her gaze is fixed

just past the things she holds,

imagining the shape

of belly, theigh,

chest and shoulders,

practicing the maternal art

of reconstruction.

We cannot see

the child she sees,

we do not know his dimensions,

all we can see is the love-struck gaze

that brings someone into being

out of nothing. 

This post is linked with Five Minute Friday.