She conceived you on the white-wash August
Friday night that I drank tea at a table talking
of Christmas -
it was a luke-warm night.
She and he
digested each other
in the stony darkness -
his supple cries strung
from the bulb of her tongue ring; echoing
When she found out. her heart shaped
face waxing from her grin (the kind that
poets talk about) I listened, she said:
to find out so early,
now I have to wait…
We both stood waiting for April, and how
winters war-cry beckoned a legion of sons -
another boy, she desires, maybe…
She calls me crying in the afternoon.
When she says the word miscarriage it
sounds haunted. A voice thick with saliva
and licking at the window screens -
it will rain all night.
She will sit on the lip of her bathtub
sucking the lace free from the clouds, and
use it to mourn with; she'll cover her face,
weave cloth into her mermaid gold-hair
that hangs like time all the way down her back.
She will not sigh when her other son shovels
food from his plate onto the floor, but she will
throw on one of the tank tops that shows too
much skin because it makes her feel wanted:
do you know what you're doing? I'll ask
the thick line of her cleavage has become a
fault line. A reservoir. Yes, she will say.
It makes her feel like the rain might stop.
Nights in September roll black, and lock-jawed.
We all know what's coming -
and the unexpected.