There were stitches on her tummy, where they took the baby out 

There is only a faint, thin line there now 


She feels at the groove sometimes, absentmindedly 

Wondering, regretting, remembering


All about the late night that a small one came into her life 

And left a little line behind 


It wasn’t what she’d wanted, or what was in her plan

This little line right on her front, in her heart, in her mind


It brings her quiet melancholy all around itself 

A voyage only mostly done

The rest left up to fate 


That line would not define her, would not give her cause to care 

But it’s where they found her little one, and came when they took her from there


She is a pillar of strength and grace

But even marble cracks 

When a line takes away its form

And from itself detracts


I wonder at all the other ones—the lines in skin and bone 

On their sacred space, their motherhood—how lines can bring reproach. 

She sits there quietly, gentle and reposed


Writing lines about her stitches 

Her happiness and her woes.