On Trying to Have a Child

Brynn Saito

Days I can’t feel you, I dive my body 
             into the deep end, pluck golden leaves 
       from the silty bottom, nearly drown. 

I push my body against concrete, surrender 
             to ribboning light, grow rapturous 
       in the gravity of quiet. Days I can’t see you

I continue my study of beaked whales 
              and pink dolphins—mystery species 
       who survive by going stealth, unsurveilled 

by the terror. Away from the carnival 
               of recognition, I could be the moon. 
        I could mother myself by swimming circles 

around an absence until it speaks. Whatever in me 
                might nourish you mends itself 
        in the undrowned part of the planet that navigates 

by the depths of untraceable tongues. 
                Days I can’t feel you, I let myself feel you. 
         I study the blueprints of bioluminescence 
in underwater caves. You do not dim.