She stands, arms outstretched,
under fluorescent lights.
She holds up empty shorts,
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, thigh,
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 her love-struck gaze
that brings someone into being
out of nothing.
