Migration by Tony Hoagland

This year Marie drives back and forth
from the hospital room of her dying friend

to the office of the adoption agency.
I bet sometimes she doesn't know
What threshold she is waiting at—

the hand of her sick friend, hot with fever;
the theoretical baby just a lot of paperwork so far.

But next year she might be standing by a grave,
wearing black with a splash of
banana vomit on it,

the little girl just starting to say Sesame Street
and Cappuccino latte grand Mommy.

The future ours for a while to hold, with its heaviness—
and hope moving from one location to another
like the holy ghost that it is.


  1. Thresholds.

    Oh yeah. I've crossed a number in the last year.


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