Most of the time I don’t even think of it at all. 
I can drink coffee and eat Cheerios without 
thoughts creeping in of holding a sweet babe 
close to my chest, feeding the child my own 
life-strength in pure liquid gold. Other days, 
these thoughts are so heavy that they drape
across my shoulders and torso like an afghan, 
crafted, I’m certain, by a great-aunt who blessed it
with all the love she could muster, a blanket 
weighted with pastel hopes and dreams of sunshine.
Most of the time I can breeze by the tiny clothes
without pausing to gently graze my fingertips across
tiny pink peplum tops with matching buttery leggings,
over forest green corduroy pants and soft charcoal vests.
Other times, though, I can hardly scold myself into budging
from those little aisles, imagining how much dreamier 
they’d feel after being tenderly washed with Dreft and Downy.
I can’t help but boomerang back to what I might call them, 
those babies that I can’t allow myself to call my own.
Names have always been the most memorable things to me
about people I have known as classmates, friends,
even those who forever remain simply acquaintances.
When I find my mind rocking and drifting into the shallows,
I even have to name myself for who I am should I go there:
selfish mother, neurotic mom, foolish woman who thought
she could raise a living creature when she forgets to give herself 
water and bathe regularly and keep her own mind from 
tangling itself into an impossible knot of “should haves.”
I’m much gentler with the little list I’ve compiled of names
for the babes, more forgiving, yet slightly tinged with despair.
Most of all, the names are strong– stronger than their mom. 
They’ll continue to bloom and thrive in the recesses of my mind, 
and I allow myself a few moments every now and then 
to tend to the thoughts, until I’m reminded to live.