Her Body: Graveyard
The first time at twenty-five
I felt the child inside me alive
until the cramp and blood--
the violent ending
of my unsung son.
And the second time,
she barely registered--
a missed period, a test,
and I guessed,
maybe yes--this time
I'd fight my biology.
But I fought nausea
and in tears knew
how quickly
she
ceased to be.
My hard-fought fertility
has taken me from
the bed to the ER
to doctors and the spare
couch where I have sat,
paging through unaffordable options,
to have
just one, adorable child.
So tell me,
when this one dies,
if it dies, under my heart,
when do I start to heal--
with a surgical finish
and a promise that we will meet again?
Or will some
jumped up motherfucker
make me leave his little
bones
joined in me until the
rush of
thankless labor
some days off
let me unburden the ghost
of another child I did not have?
Make my heart a
stone,
and inscribe there
their names unwritten
for what your laws will make
of my potters' womb.
A monument to death in me.
My life a tomb
for your
purity.
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Your pain comes through so vividly.
