I’m hiding from blood;
Clenching my thighs in protest.
How can I trust my intuition,
If it’s polluted by my dread?
Beading hope with alarm,
Bliss with worry,
Longing with surrender.
I am a doll of fate,
Gnashed about in the grip of the unknowable.
I measure my confidence in weeks.
If life is paradox,
Then must my greatest joy always,
And in equal measure,
Accompany my most ardent fear?
To celebrate is to mourn.
Yet, this duality proffers no comfort.
Shall I linger in uncertainty
Expectant of peace?
To even utter the word,
Is to give it power.
But, to trap it in a cloud of unknowing
Is, perhaps, to let it root and grow
Alongside the life
That fights to transform and persist.
Let it be concedes
To let it die.
If it is meant to be
Sits bitter and metallic on my tongue.
And so, there is but one
Meek and sincere imperative
Crying out from my stretching uterus
That vibrates every tendon, capillary, tissue
As it makes its way
To my cracked and trembling lips,
6 years ago