to my future child:

it will be extremely

difficult for me to

put you to bed at night.

i sit outside the door.

i won’t know if you cry

because you’re hurt, or you

just don’t want to go to

sleep. me too, baby. i

am paranoid that this

dark won’t see you through to

light and i won’t get to

love you anymore. please

know that i know what you

want only half the time.

be patient. i’m new to

this, too.


in the silent hour:

i’m still sitting outside

your door, tea in hand, fear

in eyes. i sure am

a shaky mold to fill.

i’ll pray for the first time,

for real, just for you. “god

grant me serenity, cou-

rage and wisdom.”

i’ll learn the hail marys

if it’ll see you through. i’m

here, tea in hand, fear in

love, love in paradox

of childbirth, recal-

ling when i thought you’d

never exist.


in the quiet time:

i’ll arise from my wall,

tea in hand. hope in fear

in love for you. watch your

chest rise and fall. i hope,

anyway. and hope lives

in fear. especially

with you.


the house, humming, a

backing track to a new

endeavor, symphony

for you and me. i think,

every night, about just

staying here, sleeping with

you, waking as the sun

begins to rise, just like

you do. and, i’m sure, i

stay, dream baby, cup on

floor, sleep in hope in fear

in love.


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