Unborn

The fifteenth.

I’d been looking forward to that day for months—

on that day a train

I would have ridden to Chicago.

And you, my dear,

would have slipped so ever softly

on your own tiny journey.

I’d been carrying you since I was born, expecting

that one day you’d come on time,

unharmed, and whole.

I never felt you coming—

but I knew you where you would be

when you arrived,

somewhere dark and hidden

safe within.

I was on my way to see your father—

or rather,

the one who would have been so,

had I let him.

I was nervous,

for I knew I carried you inside me.

I knew you sat there waiting,

captive in that locked-tight muscled wall.

I knew, too, I couldn’t really keep you

if I didn’t introduce you to him.

In two weeks’ time, you’d slip away

as quietly as you had come.

And if you left, my ache

to hold you in my arms would go unfilled.

You needed him to teach you

what you yourself should be—

the last component
to complex algorithm,

the final note in glorious symphony!

He would have loved to meet you,

to know the color of your eyes,

your skin, your hair,

to let your porc’lain hand curl ‘round his finger.

You would have been like me,

which would have pleased him.

You waited, but he never came.

I kept you from him, child.

Forgive me;

it just wasn’t time.