The ticking stopped.
The rush is over;
Nothing will come of me,
No new life to justify and fulfill my own,
No reason to return home.
I will never buy a crib.
My husband has ducked my love.
All my plans have fallen to dust,
Just like this useless womb.
All I have to teach is dead;
All I have to give, deemed unworthy.
What is a poet?
What am I?
A rambler… a stringer of words.
Too tired to form long sentences
Too direct, too honest,
I dare myself onto paper
It’s the only birth I can accomplish;
Words as brief as my mark on this world
And just as forgettable.
I saw the future…
I saw her crib,
And the characters I painted on the wall
Chosen for a theme
to please the love of my life
And frame our beautiful child for him
To show him the promise
Of what he might share with her.
I pictured her little fingers
Wrapped around rosewood and strings
With his hands around hers
But she’s been taken from me
Before I could hold her even once.
I saw the future
But then the future never came.
Just once he held me in comfort.
For a moment he promised to listen.
He told me he loved me.
But, he says that day was a mistake,
A moment of weakness.