I don't know what made me do it. It was like getting up late at night and going out to find the moon, hung full, at the end of the block. Framed, between the low row of houses. As if it had been there, waiting, all the time.
When I came back inside, there was my life, enormous about me. It hung, as in a story, and then started to shrink. A girl with pigtails came into the room and reached up and grabbed the thing like the moon and started swaying with it back and forth, tossing it up and down.
I lay down, letting the page turn, for choice. Letting the light come up, as a decision. When I woke, you were there, at the head-end of the crib, still in your blankets. A small form. Your breath like someone escaping, then being caught.
As if this time it will be different. Up in the sky, intact. A small stranger opening her arms. Letting the thin silver slip through into the blank before the hands can clasp. Or, in the undergrowth, the little squirrels, or in the dark burrows, beneath the house.
Nadia Herman Colburn lives in Cambridge, MA where she teaches literature at MIT. Her poetry has appeared in many places including The New Yorker, Conjunctions, American Poetry Review and Slate. She is currently working on a meditative memoir about pregnancy, motherhood, social responsibility and art, pieces of which are forthcoming in the Southwest Review and Literary Imagination.