nobody moves.

the cafe windows fog
against the din of jazz and chatter.
a drizzling sunday morning soaks
through, we unravel
at the door, wrap ourselves into
the humid orchestra.

two tables down, a crash.

heads turn as wailing
cuts through the space. a tiny
mug in shards, streams of hot
chocolate splashed across
the concrete floor. hot
tears, pink cheeks.
coos too quiet
for us to hear.

nobody moves.

clutching napkins, i rush to
the sugared milk pooling around the
table legs. i look to the mother first,
i wait to make sure its
welcome

she cannot see me just yet, eyes
shut against the world, her body
rocking back and forth,
curved towards the little face
crying in her arms. when she does
return, eyes open to my
waiting
she is surprised. confused.
she is not used to an outsretched
hand.

i get the staff to grab a mop after triage
tells us the job is too big for a
cloth.

the mess has vanished. the hot
chocolate replaced. the mother is
still baffled at my presence, says thank you
like she’s saying i’m sorry.

there is a question mark
held tight against my someday
identity of mother

i may not get there. that would
and would not be a loss. i would
build a life around either end.

the no scaffolds stronger with
each cafe of unmoving strangers
watching an exhausted woman
scoop the tears into the bucket alone
no hands around her.

the yes dwells somewhere
held together by the kindling of
my own steps to mop up. if there were
more of me out there, then,