By Maggie Smith
The girl wonders: If she held a lantern
before the woman until she went
transparent enough to read through,
would she see the child inside
like a letter full of secrets? Once the girl
was part of the woman, tethered
inside her, transparent herself—
until the winter she writhed into air,
a new creature entirely. Darkness
inside the body must be woods-black.
The girl wonders: If she held a lantern
before the woman, would she see
what became of the unfinished child
bled away in the far field? She wonders
if its ghost is still on the mountain,
hovering birdlike in the scent
of the woman’s hair. If the woman
went transparent enough, the girl
wonders if she would see a shadow
inside her, a small lobe of darkness
nestled beside the living child.
“Transparent” from Good Bones, published by Tupelo Press, copyright 2017 Maggie Smith. Used with permission.
Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash