OUR BABY

Abigail Feldman

Between welts shaped like islands, 
a small crank turns backwards, 
and birds fly north for the winter.
Our baby splintered 
like a shard of ice off frozen bones.
No, our baby arrived
suspended by a migratory loon.
No, descended
from the crook of a laurel bough
bristling in the wind.
Our baby melted
into a puddle on the ground.
We circled to watch it evaporate.

Abigail Feldman lives and writes in Raleigh, North Carolina.