At birth, you high-five the air and hiccup through the night.
H is for hydrogen, for H₂O, for all the elements
that brought us together. H is for hospital—

a place with too much and not enough light.
I hover over you. Are you still breathing?  
H—heartbeat, health check. Helplessness. Will I know

how much to feed you? Your birth mother rests
in the room next door. Would she be able to do it better?
H is for horses, for my childhood figurine I gave her

before you were born. The plastic appaloosa
reminded her of her horse, of honeysuckle, hyacinth, and wide-open fields.
Horses hammer trails in your sleep.

H is for healing, for hungry, for huckleberries and hazelnuts—
all the delights I want to give you. You pucker your lips,
let out a sigh. Your breath canters through my dreams.

—Shannon K. Winston

Poet’s Website

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