Conjuring an Existence

My daughter is sad. I don’t know how to help.
I am mother, I am life-giver, I am strong

shoulders and soft stomach. I have referred
her to the necessary professionals. How do I

trust someone who has not cradled her in their
womb, who has not stretched out beside her on

her twin bed to coax sleep, who has not brushed
the hair out of her wet eyes. I have two others with

empty bellies who watch, eyes wide. I am healer
who has not healed. To make a life out of four

petals and a stamen, place ourselves on a branch,
conjure leaves into existence, lure bees toward us

with our humming flavours—these are our tasks,
this is what we will do, this is how we pretend we belong.

Wendy BooydeGraaff's fiction, poems, and essays have been included in The Ilanot Review, The Brooklyn Review, Porter House Review, Slant: A Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Ontario, Canada, she now lives in Michigan, United States. Find her at wendybooydegraaff.com and @BooyTweets.