When the caseworker opened the file
and said, this will be difficult, did you

imagine my whole fist around your finger?
Did you hold the photograph

and think of how small I was, my entire weight

fitting into your palms? Difficult,
your already busy life —

six kids, husband, an outgrown house. At 42,
was there something in those papers

that made you want to do it again? I want to

remember your approach, your echo of
sensible flats in the hospital corridor,

the caseworker with the file folder under
her arm. Your Polaroid snap,

how when you said to me years later, I knew
when I saw you, I want to think of myself

reaching for your bright mouth,
your turquoise necklace,

everything I could get my hands on.