It was not as though she could easily comprise in herself
the face of another, the peculiar arc of a smile

or brow as one might gather eggs at dawn.

It was not as if by swallowing a bite of mushroom
from the left or right side, she could toggle her way

to a new nation, the sheath of her bones expanding:
a hand here, an elbow there,

suddenly, the whole constellation.

No, it had to be done methodically.
First, she would have to listen, to the dead.

She sifted through obituaries
for her miracle.

Mary Edith, Naomi, Hattie. . .
she tried each name, incanting

the light that would stick to the sound of a word.

The names gathered around her, slipping
into pockets and sleeves, the mothers and lovers,

weeping into her bones.

She held them there through the night,
the fanatic maternity breaking her heart.

By morning, she had decided
for Rosa Marie Angelo, age 38,

who had succumbed in a courageous battle
following the removal of her left lung.

In that moment of commitment she discovered
the courage of thieves and ghosts,

her hand not her hand,
her shadow growing into a swarm

from her backbone to belly the fullness
of orchards, hiving

and everything possible.