Expecting

"You knew—growing there, sleeping, or dead, an instinct—was in you, was witnessing—your mind, and yet you walked by the polluted stream, and dreamed—of your mother's miscarriage."

"I did not know what a child was, where it came from, what it would and would not eat, nor if it would neglect me." That summer had a springtime air. In July, she accepted the hydrangea. Suitable, as if—the roses, moved, had turned

blue, suddenly stained—with the toxins—of food coloring. She filled out the paperwork, shook the man's hand, and knew for an afternoon, in exact terms, the damages—she was entitled to. She couldn't keep the baby

awake, and would not drink the caffeine, take—the difficult medications. In church: heaven—altered, seemed—risen, and one would need to high-jump to get in, just as she was refraining imploded.