Yanita Georgieva
WALKING HOME ALONG THE FREEWAY
I heard a wailing buried
under thorns and bushes.
I don’t know what it means
to be a mother, but it’s true:
I was hysterical. I raked and raked
and peeled through spikes
—and nothing. Then
I realised that I could speak
its language. I stood there, wailing with it
two voices reaching for each other
in the dark. When it appeared,
it looked at me like something holy.
Around us cars zipped past
clouds gathered and I held it,
blood gushing through my palms,
desperate to save something.