How did you do it, asks the child
who issued from your body. She
herself now has a child who is sick,
has caught his first cold; and she
is sick with worry. You look back
at those times as through a window
streaked with rain or fog. Or you are
coaxing someone to believe
yes it is OK to cross
the glass bridge that spans
the terrifying chasm. You gave up
trying to avoid steamed buns
filled with pork and shredded cabbage,
sticky rice boiled in coconut milk,
the allure of green
mangos with salted shrimp.
When you were tired you ate
in order to trick sleep.
But you couldn’t give up taking
mental notes of what drifted
your way by earshot: talk
in elevators, tearful confessions
above white tablecloths
too proud of their freedom
from crumbs. Also, you wanted nothing
more than to finish stacks of half-
read novels. In college you’d come
across the phrase the life of the mind—
No one told you then you couldn’t have it
without living in the body. This body.
How the bright thoughts came
like flashes of light through those
windows, while you chewed on a pencil
end. While the babies drowsed in your arms.