A baby bundled like a human
burrito stares at the pizza in my
greasy hands and I am
embarrassed for thinking a baby
will judge the way
I eat pizza in public.
We share glances and I smile
at her frost-nipped nose, and
think of the crust in my teeth.
I wave at her heavy stare,
say hello like I am talking
to a dog but she is not a dog. She is
a baby looking at my greasy hands
and crusty teeth.
Her baby hand escapes from her
makeshift pink burrito,
waves and stares.
Does she see the baby I want, my own
bundle? Can she see me as the mother
I couldn’t have?
She smiles her gummy smile--my eyes
water and I am embarrassed again.
Swaddled, she analyses my now-empty
hands as she is strolled away.
The baby will forget me soon.
Babies do not remember much.
I don’t remember you, mama,
the rings on your fingers, silver
intertwined with turquoise.
I find your hands in mine, the lines
we never finished.
Your sound is static in my ears.
My head underwater.
Sabina Lindsey is a Boston based poet. She is currently an MFA student for poetry at The University of Massachusetts Boston.