In the moment
I had the right words,
in the right order
in order to convey
what it was I was trying to say.

But the sun glare on
windshield caught my eye
and the concept faded away.

We were driving through the heart of the prairie,

blackbirds sat on barbed fence

we passed by rows of barren corn fields,
you were on the phone with your mom.

Distant barns and silos framed houses
hidden under dogwood and chestnut trees.

Occasionally stagnant bogs gleam in a flicker
behind bobtails and tall grasses.

You said something about a hard recovery
and immediately I knew you were talking about

the caesarean with our first. I thought about the late nights
and early mornings;
trying as best I could to help

though knowing I was too immature and it wasn’t enough.
And I thought of how selfish I’d always been

my whole life, even now.
The sun refracted through the cloud filled sky

and Dahlia, our second, was falling asleep in the backseat.

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