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.