For months I pricked myself with Pergonal,
folded away tiny tear-stained blankets,
closed the nursery door.
A double blue line was the light of my life,
and now the doctors say
you will forever face the night.
You have planted yourself in darkness
where life cannot grow;
you did not make it to my womb,
my barren womb, a desert still.
The doctors will take you from me,
tomorrow you will be gone,
and I will be without child once more
and again I will fold those tiny blankets
and close that nursery door.
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