I walk the cradle to the grave.
The bassinet soaks my hair like hot foam
Like a drowning dance, my toes are pointed in my shoes.
I am a mother before I am woman,
Before I am ill, before I am the large vast land
Consumed by wildfire.
Smoke rises along the stream,
But I do not care.
I am already wet from
My water breaking, the day I
Closed my eyes and imagined what
It would be like to be so small,
To be only a sharp short cry
In black night light.
I sip on my own breast like
A morning shower.
Gabby Vachon is a writer and HMUA from Montreal, Canada. She has been recently published in Blue Earth Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, and carte blanche, and won second place in the Smartish Pace Beullah Rose Poetry Prize. She holds an Honors English Literature BA from Concordia University, and lives with her beloved husband Justin and puppy Lola.