My unborn children are wilted flowers.
I fear their feet will touch the frigid floors,
where I trail my sadness behind me.
My unborn children are potted plants,
because I am afraid I will fail them –
if I let them see the world –
where I have become a failure.
God, whose face rests like a lotus,
brow not furrowed by calamity,
I weep for them.
My children, whose ribs ache of hearty tears,
I promise I have thought of you-
since I knew I had twigs in my uterus
capable of building nests.
My children, whose chromosomes are half,
my love is afraid to make you a whole being,
so I shall wait.
I was born in the flower bed,
where my parents used spoons
instead of a small spade to till soil.
My unborn children,
I hold my hand against my cheek,
and think how my love breathes only a few feet in front of me,
as a frost cloud when my lips are parted in winter.