wildscape. literary journal

On Possible Parenthood
by Genevieve Creedon

I believe I am most lost
when I find myself seeking certainty.

The past threads its needle 
through my brain tissue, the prick 

and pressure of the atmosphere
pounding my temples as it knots. 

In the morning’s preface, 
the child whose name I don’t yet 

know rides in a car seat between
the adoption social worker I’ve only 

ever met on Zoom and a former boss,
who is pointing out that the tree branches

in the driveway look like burnt bones,
except for the raindrops in which I think

I can see the brown of my eyes
reflected, but maybe it’s just the headlights.

I drive as if these people 
were not in the car, as if the baby

were already mine (though
children are not belongings—

and I know this, too, but am unsure
how else to say it). The baby, too,

gurgles as if she, he, they is not
caught between the strange brokers

in the backseat. Maybe the dog
is in the back and the canine-

child conduit is already strong. 
The strength of the conduit between the child

and canine seems backwards—
strange brokers in the backseat 

that gurgles as they, he, she catches
(how else can I say it? Even though 

belonging is unknown to babies and children,
it is known) already the mine in the car,

these people. The browns of my eyes
are just headlights in which I think

I see the raindrops that look like burnt bones
except for the driveway that points out

tree branches and a former boss
in a car seat between Zoom and adoption.

The social worker knows that seats 
ride between cars to preface 

the child’s morning with the not 
knowing that needs a name.   

Knots pound my temples
as the atmosphere’s pressure

pricks through my brain tissue,
its needle threading the past.

I find myself seeking loss
when I believe I am most certain. 

about the author // Genevieve Creedon