Ila White by Terri Kirby Erickson

In the dark dresser drawer my grandmother,
Ila White, slept as if she was still in the womb,

an infant so small, she fit in her father's palm.
Three babies ahead of her died before birth

and another one, soon thereafter. We won't lose
this child, my great-grandmother, Nannie, said,

opening the drawer and tucking her daughter in.
Ila's kidney-bean-sized-lungs might have held

a thimble-full of air, and her cry was a mewling
sound, like a newborn kitten. But her mother

heard it clear across the barnyard; the cow she
was milking bellowing at the loss of her warm

hand on a cold morning as Nannie kicked over
the wooden stool, grabbed the bucket, and ran.



Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of five collections of award-winning poetry. Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, storySouth, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. Awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award. She lives in North Carolina.