foreclosure

the angel comes in the night

holding a child swaddled.

I keep trying to tell her there is no room in the inn.

the sand stretches out dry & wasted

Balaam’s donkey is braying relentless,

his head swivels as if on a spring

to ask.

“What have I done to you? that you have

struck me three times?”

the tomb is empty

on the third day

my womb is empty.

I receive apologies most often.

looks that are filled with sorrow

worried brows.

I can see behind the condolence, the thoughts.

what if it was them.

trying to imagine

how empty,

barren.

the slow disappearance

of their babies smile.

the crib empty

the blanket lifting freely

no weight. nothing to measure the loss

so, they offer me phrases.

In fifth grade I use to

write out the alphabet & pick baby names for every

letter.

In my twenties I said

I didn’t want children.

they would smile & say you will, you will;

by thirty my choice was gone.

my body will never know the feel of it,

life

growing within.

never see my own expressions mirrored on the face

of a three yr. old.

learn their likes & dislikes.

grow beside them, hold a small hand to my chest.

it makes me feel set apart from other women.

I have not, will not share in their experiences.

I was not lying at twenty when I decided

I didn’t want children.

I was afraid I’d be a bad mother; now I won’t ever know.

I have come to peace about this

but the women have not.

the faces, when I tell.

those hurt.