She is pregnant.
Belly; full and a
bursting bubble,
breathing in and
deflating her thoughts and her heart,
one week, (first trimester), at a time.
Foetus you are scientific.
An incomplete mass of embryonic cells
(and you are cold
and pain-less and
have no heart) or are you,
a baby?

"I wish you could tell me, I wish I knew."
But she's quiet because
that might mean it could be real,
or it could be not.

She doesn't believe in God but the pictures from her old high school textbook make her doubt.
They put images in her head of a big, white man in the sky whose beard
tickles her feet and flattens her chest and
turns the eyes of man away.

"Darn, Marla. You're getting bigger everyday!"
She knows he just loves her for it;
for the cravings and the morning sickness
and her cankles, her big ol' cankles.
But he's quiet as well because
that might mean it could be real,
or it could be not...anymore.

Ten weeks and red lingerie and she cried.
No one heard her but she cried.

The maid turned away, and so did Miss Shelly next door,
drawing curtains because sometimes the reflection is so startling,
sometimes it's too hard to look in the mirror.

There's something like power and murder in her hands and a "yes-no" in her throat,
but that is not real. It is underground,
at the back of her 1952 cupboard behind the gloves, apron and cheese.
Happy rainy days remind her of all the
dark corners, dark corridors,
black holes.
Her path is a black hole.

But she knew this and
so did Kelly who's already got four kids
with another on the way because her husband likes to see her with her
hands on her lower back and her head on the hospital bed.
He said it makes him feel like she isn't alive.

And this life is a morgue.
She is the cadaver, meant for the final unappreciation; obligatory sacrifice.
And she can only hope they stop taking her down from the cross so often because
the nails hurt and the wood is rotting from all the blood.

"We are just so excited."
She wishes she was six years old or at least in a place where she wouldn't have to bleed,
where she wouldn't have to throw up for once purposely or because -
Laugh, smile, cigarette.

"That's why women are so stupid."

Double, double, toil and unwanted trouble.
(Accident.
Even though she took precautions he must never find out about.)
Well, that's what Mary Kay says and she should know because she has them,
two sets of twins. Terrible.

On her knees, Scotch in hand and hymns behind her teeth.
She's looking out the window at the empty sky. Morning.
Oh, rain. Oh, rain. Go away.
Please. "Mommy!"

Sigh.