I see you from time to time,
jogging down J street as I drive by,

and I want to stop, leap out
of the car, and holler, “Baby!”

As though you came from me,
as if, ages ago, I had not had you

removed like a wart barnacling my
insides, before you could grow lungs,

draw breath. All these years later
you run by so casually alive,

a vibrant 30-something, long
hair swinging, sometimes caught

up in a ponytail, as you jog
past a woman who might have

brushed your hair, taught you
to walk and swim, driven you

places, had I kept you safe.
I cannot undo that decision,

one I did not regret for years
and mostly still don’t. But

when I see you now and again,
my woulda-coulda-shoulda

daughter, what is left of my
old uterus shrivels a bit more.

I blow you a kiss and send you love,
imagine you turning toward me,

smiling, hearing you call me
Mom.