Jill

For my beautiful daughter-in-law on her birthday.

our family stock was uncommon common happiness, apples and oranges; you, a perfect fig.

when our restless boy brought you home, set you down at our rowdy table,

the air moved, like the universe exhaling. like, okay.

fact: a fig is not a fruit, but an inverted flower,  

soft-skinned, a midnight purple teardrop.

that first night, eating burned homemade pizza,    

we swiftly folded you in, our levity tinged with purpose,

like we’d shared a bleak vision of our lives absent figs, or joy,

or an abundance of you.