He mentioned a baby again this morning,

And close behind, the echo soft and insistent

That it’s too late, too soon,

The wrong season, the wrong year.

And yet, your body thrills at it, wanting

To open in sweetness, a pink flower tilting

Towards the silk at its center,

A container to hold the tender growth—

The language women have known forever.

Besides, you aren’t young anymore

You stopped praying for blood years ago

And each month with its familiar quiet

Brings you one step close to that final quiet,

Life yawning like a tulip about to scatter petals

Worn out with the weight of staying so always open.