In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Though he works and worries, the farmernever reaches down to where the seed turnsto summer

We are trying to decide                if this is our son

growing six months                in the body of a woman

her last name blacked out                for privacy

we go over paperwork                on lunch, meet

in the sculpture garden, they took                the Rodin to storage

Monday, we have 48 hours                to decide

you can’t keep everyone                waiting: this girl, the thousand

couples who might become                his parents

if we pass                she is 18, enjoys cooking

and dancing with friends                has finished high school, is willingto seek counseling                no self-reported [End Page 28]

drugs or alcohol                I wanted

the father there, all                his information

in case my son                ever asks, and so we’ll know

how to decide                I wanted

more time, the document begins                to blur: handwritten, then

photocopied, faxed                faxed back

another artifact                in the collection

ink on paper                sonogram cloud

all of it goes                into a box

beneath the bed                which one day you will open

and put yourself together [End Page 29]

Craig Beaven

Craig Beaven has poems out or forthcoming in Cutbank, Carolina Quarterly, Green Mountains Review online, North American Review, Prairie Schooner, and others. He was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.



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