The last time I was in a canoe, I was a preteen. Now I'm the mom, and, from the instability of the boat to the beauty of the water, things are different.
Approximately 150 cells floating in a sac of fluid and burrowed into my uterus are multiplying at an astounding rate toward viable life. Assuming I carry this pregnancy to term, it will be the first time I give birth. It won’t, however, be my first child.
In the back room of The California Clipper Lounge, the rumble of Chicago traffic crept inside against the softly spoken word of poetry. Sheryl Luna, dark hair draped around her face, spoke sideways into a microphone a tangle of words alluding to the desert Southwest:
“And I remember that it is good to be born of dust, / born amid cardboard shanties of sweet gloom. / I remember that the bare cemetery stones / in El Paso and Juárez hold the music, and each spring / when the winds carry the dust of loss there is a howl, / a surge of something unbelievable, like death, / like the collapse of language, like the frail bones / of Mexican grandmothers singing.”…