You would be Ruth, I think,
named for my Nana,
a flapper in her youth
with a twin named Ruby
and lungs blackened
by decades of smoke.
Or perhaps you would be Ruth
for the blue-eyed woman
who said, “Breathe, breathe!”
and held my hand,
as I said “No” to a child,
but wished I could say “Yes.”
I’ve thought of you so often,
you’re like a person on a trip,
real but not present.
I long for your return
and the stories you’ll bring.
But Ruthie, you are just an idea.
I see my two live children
run down a hill, oldest, youngest,
tallest, shortest, first and last.
There is no in-between one.
Without you, Ruthie, there are only
two ends, no middle.
I recall my lost children,
the one I rejected as Ruth looked on,
and before that, another, gone the same way.
They were never born, never known.
Yet every year I count their ages,
imagine their faces, voices, minds.
Ruthie, I am even now;
you would tip the balance.
If I decide against you,
you will have to remain wherever you are.
I will never hold you, breasts humming.
You will never taste my milk’s sweetness.
I will never see you run with the others,
and Ruthie, you will never run.
Without you, I am the middle.
I will stand here forever,
the dead in one arm,
the living in the other,
a frozen scale,
haunted by your ghost.