Kathy Nelson
TACO TUESDAY
Maybe this is mirage, this belonging,
grandbaby on my shoulder, eighteen days, already holding up her wobbly head,
daughter in the kitchen shredding chicken,
older grandkids showing me their homework
or downstairs playing foosball, husband still
here after all the ways I’ve maimed him,
or maybe the mirage was that concrete curb
where I slouched—fetal—until a stranger
leaned to help then silently turned away,
or maybe the jagged scar on my belly
where something red and squalling and helpless
was taken out but not a baby, no one
telling me Push Push, mirage.