| maybe the 5th or 7th or 9th or some other time if my body is playing copy-cat, motherhood oozes from me and away, like a confused bird migrating twelve times a year. there comes a feeling of loss with nothing being lost at all - a baby girl, dropping a baby doll - it's the idea of the thing, losing not what was, but what could have been. One year, some month on the 5th or 7th or 9th or some other day Motherhood will stand her ground. Nine months later, we'll hope May, April having been filled with showers, and what could have been will be a baby - mine - yours - ours. |
| Playing house is my idea of absolution. We will build four walls of desperation, one roof of hope, and a small, white, fence of maybe's and only when the baby is choking me, when your mistress-called-work takes you away, and the puppy has been served up in place of trust, will we understand we have not been playing... we were not playing and our sins are all that would grow in the goodly garden of the four-walled house of hope. |