never sure why so sure

somehow you write with so much hope. without a one of your three children. with the faith of a thousand churchless workers. so it's back to Spokane you are, or Georgia, or some place north. there is often someone to help somewhere: possibly a relative, family friend, former forensics. you hold the vial and gloves to cleanse your new life of any connections to its reflection. you know as well as the department of humyn services that they would wait there for you at the hospital, and after birth hand you both back. you to the street, and your letter-named kind to the system that can afford neither sugar nor parking spaces. this is an industry, but no one tells you about anything but you. we also forget that every one of us nearly put ourselves in your bedless. and you wake to the sunshine, some place not so far from a ship's deck, no higher than an apogee. i will practice the piano so we can celebrate, once was a standard to laugh with blood in your fists.