When My Child Tells Me He is Her
I give her the dress that no longer
fits, take the waist in like breath—
a fabric my hands wove, dye blue
and pink baby blankets the colors
of mars clay, moon rock, moss.
Welcome her to her universe
of being, shake day awake, rise
and shine the silver off the cusp.
An older mother grows too,
sees the child for who she is,
loves her, loves the love
she gave her self.
She made new weather.
It was always her birth.
Wish in an Empty Nest
The children come home from college to visit.
Home has a washer and dryer, New York
pizza, and the things left behind they can’t seem
to box up for the attic or toss away. We talk
about the president and the weather. I ask
them about school, term papers, friends.
If I ask how they are, they shrug, tell me everything
is fine. Sometimes I watch deer and wild turkeys
on the hill behind the house. It is something
I have taken up, like knitting, staring
out the sliding glass door in the kitchen.
I tell them to come look at the animals.
They stand beside me, one on either side. I can feel
their eyes study my face, break my day into pieces.
H.E. Fisher’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in Indianapolis Review, Miracle Monocle, SWWIM, and Canary, among other publications. H.E. studies at Hudson River Writers Center, and is pursuing their MFA at City College of New York. H.E. is the editor of (Re) An Ideas Journal.