like seeds of daffodils sun drenched,
i don’t know if i’ll ever be a mother.
it feels natural to imagine nothing.
like vacant nights.
like the inside of an egg after it’s
been blown empty — straw to mouth —
by a child like yours.
i imagine, one day, i’ll have dark hair.
wear red dresses with hyacinths,
cup my loneliness in my hands
like it is cold rare water.
my mother never wanted children.
she bore three. i know the flimsiness
of these convictions. how often
to want all is to have nothing.
young and treacherous as i am,
when i hear them cry in the night,
i cry too.
your girls have the most golden hair
Gabrielle Peterson is the assistant fiction editor for Midway Journal, and has work that has appeared in The Huffington Post, The Literary Bohemian, Eunoia Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, Front Porch Review, Cider Press Review, and Connotation Press.