I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
One late night, over wine and scrabble,
When every word seemed to hint at legacy,
We agreed, how perfect the timing
The genetics, the possibility.
Christmas season lent a backdrop 
Of nostalgia, tradition, anticipation.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.

- Megan Russel-Erlich

The path of pins or the path of needles

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
She said she loved me.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
Not the words themselves but the forgiveness in them.  
This was so different than the last time we spoke.
Her consonants soft; each vowel open as a door.
You could see our breaths moving in drifts in the cold air.
Like birds lifting, hanging there for a moment before leaving.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
Almost is its own kind of spell.  
It’s not beautiful exactly but I feel this tenderness.
The right choice doesn’t always feel right in the moment, but I can sense it.
As if I’ve been unburdened from a bee sting, as if the venom wore off.  
I would have turned myself inside out, ran backwards, changed my name.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.  
Our memories have been walking this trail through the woods, each in a different fairytale. 
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put a finger on.
We lace gloved hands, carry the empty basket between us.
There are gaps we may never fill in. 

- Sophia Rosenberg

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
Our almost-baby was going to be called; then we stopped calling it.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
The light turned one snowflake into a tiny glimmer of insight.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
I listened into the new silences, looked at your glasses rather than your eyes.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
We breathed one breath. I’d eaten cucumber that afternoon.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
Like the depth of field I gathered in my old camera.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
Thorns and dead flowers.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
Only a light itch lingered, longing for a bit of friction still.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
And something begins for me when I don’t know. I start.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
I live in your story of me, watch it play out as I gaze in through your window.
There are gaps we may never fill in.
The reader will write a new story, a new poem, in between.

- Svetlana Lilova

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
Sometimes I pass a playground and remember.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
Cared for so wholly, that such a holy collaboration sounded reasonable, even feasible.
Silence is the same in every language.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
The swings' rhythmic squeaking as caretakers of all kinds - one gentle push at a time - encouraged their little ones 
Away, fly away, it's okay...
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
We considered the shape of something formless, contained and possible, like every seed waiting in winter.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
It takes only some imagining, some connection, some belief, to launch a life into being.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
This awareness - a scene seen through the cleared center of a frosted pane - heralding.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
It was the gestation of our selves that was beckoning.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
I don't know what I meant when I said no.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
There is no beautiful being to bear our story.
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Kristen Ambrosi

I almost climbed a mountain.
Near the peak, rain then thunder then lightning, just a bit too near. (Maybe a LOT too near!) Then
we were running down
thru the slippery forest and rock trail, all so beautiful on the way up, now
a warning silence to be met on its own terms.
Finally back at home, soaked to our bones, we hung our clothes by the fire.
(Hot chocolate can help!)
But then
I almost did something right, for once.
And again
I almost did something that could never come undone.
I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
That's something that echoes in my head, that just won't go away.
I almost....
Then again:
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
Suddenly my own two feet were making their own tracks,
Quite happily. And suddenly
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
Now there is snow between our feet, beautiful snow. It knows it belongs there, is at home there.
It knows more, than I know...
Still
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
I would reach out and grab it with my mittened hand.
But it is already gone...
I almost...
No,
I understand something more now, from a distance.
That distance crunches now, like crusty snow, with a sharpness, a bright clarity.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
I have certainty, with no words, that you do too.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
But shoulds and coulds can capture us, before we even know it.
Yet
I almost....
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
Maybe it's not a finger at all, maybe it's a bandaid, or a half-written poem...
I almost...am lost...
I almost...
There are gaps we may never fill in.
But the snow falls again, and does begin
to sift our footprints in.

- Albert Fisher

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
The embryo didn’t take and we fell apart.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
You told me, there is no winter in San Francisco, only fog and rain.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
Now I can’t imagine a home without a fireplace.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
Mine a never-ending stream, yours shuddering out in dots and dashes.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
There is always something here left to grieve.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
How can I explain to you the weight of melting snow? It’s
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off. It’s
As if now I can hug you like a stranger.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
I only mean, that it is okay, and also that
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
In all that’s living and all that’s lived,
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Gillian Green

I amost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
She carried a sweetness I knew was untouchable.
She called from the plane on the runway in tears-- there would be no baby-- and said goodbye.
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Will B. Tracy

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
That winter when we drove his brown Honda Civic to the lake
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
He wore a hat with earflaps and a plaid scarf wrapped three times around his neck.
Snowflakes sprinkled my curls.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
Then the trees were full of purple buds and the words came out with hope.
That winter we spoke in short sentences.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
Brief answers.

I understand something more now, from a distance. It was as if the season was a warning.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness Like the spilt blossoms from the tulip trees,

I gather their softness in my palm.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
I could have done without the mud slapped onto the wound.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
It was messy, but it was love.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t put our finger on. The way a canopy of trees, if viewed by a bird, shows cracks
Where leaves don’t touch.
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Liz Levin

Pieces

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
And that is a city where babies are everywhere.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was. Not because we were there, in San Francisco, but because we did not have that baby.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
Slipperier, somehow.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
You could hear the spaces between.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
The delicate unswelling of an open wound becoming familiar.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off. I don’t know what I mean when I say that. I just want everything to end perfectly.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on. Missing something unlived. Missing who we were before we had to choose. We are watching snowflakes settle into a drift and realizing time is a monster disguised as a ballerina.
There are gaps we may never fill in,
and the more we speak the bigger they get,
so we watch our breath drift.
Like footprints left in snow,
some pieces of the past are only defined by their emptiness.

- Scott James

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco
for months our dreams floated like soap bubbles, until time brought a bleak and empty sky
We were walking in the snow and it dawned on me how lucky I was
to learn my heart belonged to me
This was so different from the last time we spoke
when
We could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air
building walls we couldn’t climb
I understand something more now, from a distance
about life and love and direction
how
It’s not beautiful exactly, but I feel this tenderness
flush through me
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off
though
I don’t know what I mean when I say that
yet my soul pensively reminds me that
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put a finger on
wishing for connection and happiness again
both knowing
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Janice McCrum

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.

Sometimes I think of her, that other me,
in another existence and wish her well.

We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
This life that I’ve hand-carved from powder and desire..

Grateful to the stars for not giving up on me, yet.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.

Instead of tears there was laughter and instead of anguish, hope
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.

And it was a gift to be alive.
I understand something more now, from a distance.

Yet, sometimes when I blink I lose it.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.

For the me that was
For the me that is unlearning all the ways I don’t have to be.

As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.

Let me, please, bask in the lucidity of this tiny moment.
Shh, we don’t need those words. Not yet.

I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
Preemptively missing this moment before it has crystalized into a memory.

There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Mari Mendoza

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
He came to visit me in New York; it was December three years ago.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was
to have known him since tenth grade.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
Intense, intimate. A yearning; for each other and for new life.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
Intertwined; like our bodies entangled between the sheets.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
Although my uterus failed to swell, that moment, that connection was essential.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness,
an unconditional trust.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
Not numb to pain or problems, but rather feeling discomfort and joy completely, in all their intensity.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
Most would love to only live in bliss. But the bliss is all the more when you’ve known difficulty too.

I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
That moment in time three years ago, with nothing tangible to show for it.
There are gaps we may never fill in.
Like the distance between San Francisco and New York.

- Jennifer Cardinal

As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
As if you never hurt me. The problem is I knew you as a child so all I see is a small wounded child.
My grown up needs seem to not matter, this is a child's war I am always losing.
I don't know what I mean when I say that.

- Tanya Levy

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
Regrets, regrets, regrets.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
How curious.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
Something letting go.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
Fog lifting and crossing my mind.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
What a relief.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
A warmth.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
Something has been forgiven in me.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
Me in the past and me now.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
We don't even know ourselves.
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Valerie Tate

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
Living across the country has its challenges. She is the stronger one of us, and I needed her to fly home.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
We held hands and I confirmed my resolve. Distance couldn’t break our hold.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
She let go to run across the field in her crocs. I chased her in my Uggs wanting what she had.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
We ran in circles like school girls at recess across a field that before held pumpkins and hay. And for once I am laughing and crying at the same time.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
She pulls me to her so close,tears already falling down our faces and rubs her face into mine until we kiss and fall to the snow.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
It’s cold and wet and even the afternoon sun can’t melt us. It will take only our body heat.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
It won’t last forever- we are doomed by distance-my hope melts down my face.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
But I splash her with the snot on my lips and cry let’s have a baby. She stares up into my eyes, kisses my forehead - the last taste is salt before she pushes me off and starts walking toward the sun .
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Amy Adams

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
There are gaps we may never fill in.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.

- Carolyn Chilton Casas

Slipknot

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
The one who held the door, and my heart, in limbo, for so long.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was,
the fortune nestled in my light and empty arms.

This was so different from the last time we spoke.
My desperation, then, a testy, ticking clock,
his hesitance, the alarm, disrupting every dream.

You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
Fragile drops of life, suspended in a fierce and frigid night,
then fading, gently, out of view.

I understand something more now, from a distance, from afar.
A clarity, a knowing, a truth.
Our boots crunched snow, wildly out of sync, and his voice grated, harshly, in my ear.

It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness, this latent love
for the life afloat above us,
in the ether, even now.

And yet it’s as if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
The life I craved, now so foreign, now so far.
The weight lifted, now with a subtle, a sweet-lipped ease.

I don’t know what I mean when I say that, I’ll admit.
We could have made a life, made it work, that is true.
And even now, I think we are missing each other
in a way we can’t quite put our finger on
and never will.

But that fragile drop of life, suspended in the night,
has faded, gently, out of view.

And we reach out, we lean in, we take up slack, we try –
but there are gaps we may never fill in.

- Ann VanVolkenburgh Chang

When we finally took that walk together
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
I understand something more now, from a distance
I think we were missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on..
There are gaps we may never fill in.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
Like when I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
But didn’t. It’s like that now, As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting.
As if the venom wore off. And I’m happy again.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.

- Rebecca Reid

It was a gradual thing

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco
Time slid
We were walking in the snow and it dawned on me how lucky I was
To have made another choice
This was so different from the last time we spoke
There was no urgency
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air
As if autumn strained to bring winter
I understand something more now, from a distance
Love changes you
It’s not beautiful exactly, but I feel this tenderness
And worthiness
As if I’ve been unburdened by a bee sting. As if the venom had worn off.
As if in the absence there is certainty
I don’t know what I mean when I say that
But my heart with no regrets is happy
I think we are missing each other in a way that we can’t quite put our finger on
It was a gradual thing
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Catherine Sleeper

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
Seemed so natural at the time. But we never did.
Last night I saw him again, after 20 years.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
How a child would have been the kind of bond we didn’t want.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
In love as we were then; mature as we are now.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
Not that we were talking that much. Good silence drifted too.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
We both wanted love. We thought we could make it
with a result.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
Me leaving back then was the good choice and we
can now talk about it with ease.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
Venom…
I don’t know what I mean when I say that.
It’s just this lightness taking hold of me, lifting me up.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
But we can live with it. He can return, I can stay, and we’ll be ok.
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Patrícia Dias

I almost had a baby with my friend from San Francisco.
The thought of a new life came with the last beams of the setting sun.
We were walking in the snow, and it dawned on me how lucky I was.
The words between us. And the light.
This was so different from the last time we spoke.
Small particles of stardust in the air, as a bridge.
You could see our breath moving in drifts in the cold air.
We were not alone.
I understand something more now, from a distance.
The stardust shaped itself, you could feel the beginning.
Of something.
It’s not beautiful, exactly, but I feel this tenderness.
I felt naked. Free.
As if I’ve been unburdened of a bee sting. As if the venom wore off.
Open.
I don’t know what I mean when I say that,
but in a moment we were one. Or three.
I think we are missing each other in a way we can’t quite put our finger on.
After that moment someone else was missing too.
There are gaps we may never fill in.

- Titti Backström