Leveler Poetry Journal
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When my mother cradles her pink-swaddled baby

for the first time, she swears my sister


is made of mist.

It’s understandable.


Many forces conspired for this moment.

The day of her birth dawns foggy,


her father always did have watery eyes,

the smell of sea-foam in place of anesthetic.


My mother’s fingers on her daughter’s brow.

Her daughter looking far past her, to a place


much gentler.

It’s difficult to house a child of mist –


they’re always slipping through your fingers,

trying to float up against gravity.


My mother holds the blanket close

even after everyone else says


the child is evaporated.

She knows she’s there.

Robin Cedar