I could list for you the losses:
my grandmother's sister
who died on the boat from Russia
to New York City;
or my grandmother's baby
who died on the way out
of my grandmother’s body—
or my grandmother
who died while my mother, my sister, and I
held her hand in the room
with a wall of mirrors,
dried hydrangeas on the windowsill.

I could tell you my grandmother’s losses
lived in her bones
which housed my mother
which housed me

which turned to fear,
to panic, to love
as I pushed each child out of my body.

But now the house is shaking,
the windows doing their death rattle.

Another rainstorm—
and I am inside
nursing the baby.