What’s the point

by Molly Bolton

if you’re not going to take care of what’s yours

to take care of? My spouse flicks dog shit

into the woods with a stick, kicks stray river rocks

back to the bank, picks up a lone glove

and places it on the trail sign. Our twins were

meant to stay inside my womb for three

more months, at least one or two. Yesterday

my nephew asks how tiny they were, imagining

what he could not see. Today my spouse snaps-

off low hanging twigs, tosses them towards

tomorrow. We were each going to carry a child

on our shoulders, dip low through snowy rhododendron,

stand on the edge of streams looking

for salamanders in the Spring.