Places without processed foods, parabens, radiation, and every  other thing my fertility coach says is bad for me 

after J. Estanislao Lopez

the woods behind the woods behind the woods that we can reach with the car. a farm of  my own making. wherever the squirrels take the nuts. the tiny slivers of sky between the  satellite signals. the sky, but not in an airplane. not in the microwave. not in the dentist’s  chair. Instagram where a hundred botoxed women promise purity. any land free from  the grubby fingerprints of humanity. my coach’s house, apparently. the 1800’s. the  dinosaur time. the time before the dinosaur time. the color yellow. heaven, or wherever  babies wait to become babies. where the stars sleep. a leaf before it is budded. the  space beneath my fear. the first time I held a baby doll in my tiny chubby arms. the  lining of the cloud. not the lining of my womb. not the spot that became a temporary  home. that song my husband sings in his native tongue. the first time his father sang it  to him. the color of my wedding dress. a non-genetically modified peach that never  touches ground.