Wednesday, April 13, 2011


Your beautiful heart, under no direct command from anything but God’s imprint,
Began to beat so soon after you inhabited her womb,
The two unmistakable, indelible pink lines still fresh and wet with disbelief,
Your cells, and your sheer will to thrive, was apparent, intent on a path to divide and bloom

Yet, dear child, you cannot select and choose your womb,
For this mother, who’s life is full of despair, self-centeredness, or uncertainty,
Or a father she knows will habitually be absent, and never care--
I’m sorry--for you, there is no space or room.

(Maybe next time).

If you should be so blessed, maybe next time, you’ll receive a mother that loves you immediately, unlike another, 
And who’d know from the precious moment of your miraculous conception
That your life would yield the utmost joyful reception.

Or that you’d bestow the gift of life 
for one of the millions of women,
That spend every sleepy morning 
with a thermometer in her mouth, faithfully temping,

Charting monthly,
and counting all of her fertility signs,
Only to be crushed by her Reproductive Endocrinologist’s diagnosis
That she may never hear the sweet melody of her own baby’s coos and cries.

Little embryo, I grant you the fortitude to thrive,
To implant your loving parasitic being on the inside of a warm, inviting uterus that welcomes you,
And then the ability to continually divide and survive.