March 14, 2017
and another woman, not the first and not the last,
stood in my kitchen and told me of the nausea
and the weeks of clean underwear and I think now
of how cliché it was to be two women talking about
pregnancy in what literary analysis would deem
as a feminine space, the stage of maternal theatre.
I looked at her familiar body as she talked – the bird
of her neck, the pale pottery of her arms – and felt
a splash of betrayal that it could shroud such
a secret from me or possibly do what mine had not.
She peed with the door open and as if recited
by an eager child, the stick changed instantly.
The loud conjuring of her body. What do I do?
What if this is the only time I’m pregnant?
I’m getting older, you know. Two weeks later,
I picked her up from the clinic. Was it painful?
Yes. Were you afraid? No. We both cry.
It’s okay, it wasn’t the right time. It will happen
again when you’re ready, I say and I try to believe it.