Letter from the Heart

Betsy Joseph

March 5, 2023

Ah, my water child:

You were designated to be born—

until you weren’t.

The lively acrobatics which you performed

in the warm waters of safety—

minnow-like at first and then more dolphin-like—

suddenly eased and then stopped altogether.

I was left to wonder:

Did the finger of fate make that determination?

I cannot think you would guide your own ending—

that you would plan cessation of life before birth.

You had communicated so differently to me.

In Japan, the Buddhists would bestow the name

Mizuko on you.

They would hold a special service,

Mizuko Kuyo, and bow to you.

Already you would be honored.

And the god Jizo would gently ferry the essence of you

to the next world, a place to await your time for rebirth.

I think of you in the imagined form

I carried for thirty-eight weeks

and have decided on the final journey you will make.

From the waters of my womb, we will carry you to the river

where you were one day to sit by the fern-edged bank

throwing twig and leaf boats into the slight current,

watching them drift slowly from sight.

We will memorialize you there, 

my water child,

on the morning of the Summer Solstice

where you will have traveled from one body of water to another.

I will prop a parasol to cast a shadow 

just long enough to protect you from the sun, 

your essence enclosed in a simple stone vase

containing one white rosebud and a mother’s silent tears.

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems that have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry books published by Lamar University Literary Press: Only So Many Autumns (2019) and most recently, Relatively Speaking (2022), a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron. In addition, she and her husband, photographer Bruce Jordan, have produced two books, Benches and Lighthouses, which pair her haiku with his black and white photography.