Pebble art by Sharon Nowlan

I met someone.
You can call her what you want.
I’m going to call her

biological mother
for now.

Jesus, we look alike.

We’re a little lost.
We talk and talk.
Jesus, we sounds alike.
We order green tea and forget to drink it.
Questions, answers
Questioned, answered
Cheekbones, same
talk talk talk
Expressions, similar
talk talk talk
Height, identical
tangent, tangent, back
talking, we search
feature by feature
looking for connections, more
than superficial?

I think so

We leave
each other, shaking
a 27-year-old embrace
found.

It’s ok.
It’s all ok.
It always has been.
It was all for the best. This
is where
we are

supposed to start.

Umbilical-Collage by Miya Turnbull

There you are
with your comma-shaped body
your ball-point eyes
your scotch tape skin
your paperclip limbs
I put a yellow sticky-note on my belly
our first game of Hide
and Seek

Don’t peek, little baby

You’re not ready for this world yet
I haven’t bought you
any onesies
You’d been chilly, naked baby
so float on
like a little mitochondrion
double membrane
liquid buffer
I wish I had
a periscope
to see in your cristae space
to crawl into your matrix

Someday soon
I’ll see you
grow right before my eyes
like the sea monkeys
at the back of the Archies
so happy, families
smiling bravely
with their crowns or
three-pronged heads
“So eager to please, they can even be trained”
the ad said.

I’d also like
the X-ray vision

glasses, to see through me
straight to you.