giving me away?”
“Things were different then,”
says Mom.
“I never would have seen
your sweet face again.
Nowadays, with open adoptions,
that’s all changed.”
I nod, understanding
at least a little.
“No promises,” I tell her,
giving Junior
a reassuring rub.
“I’ll think about it.”
At least,
I can chew on it now
seeing as how
the word adoption
no longer leaves
a bad taste
in my mind.
20-20
These days
when I pass Trey
in the hall
smooth-talking
his latest,
all I feel for him
is sorry
‘cause underneath those
lovely lashes,
his eyes are dead.
Funny how
I finally
notice that now.
Waterlogged
Damn.
Sorry Lord, but
some gremlin must’ve
snuck into my room
in the middle of the night
and jammed syringes full of water
into my ankles. Again.
Tell me they don’t look
like blowfish
attached to the anchors
of my feet!
LaVonne Taylor
LaVonne squeezes up
to the lunch table
at eight months,
her belly nearly big enough
to rest her tray on.
She’s an island in a sea
of cool kids
and I can’t stand to see her
all alone, again.
That will be me real soon.
I pay for my sloppy joe
and OJ, and make my way
across the cafeteria.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask LaVonne.
“You sure you want to?
Might give you a bad name,” she says.
“The way I figure,” I tell her,
“we’re two of a kind.”
LaVonne snorts,
eyeing my middle.
“Not yet.
You’re hardly showing.
Just wait.”
Why do the last two words
weigh heavy on the air?
I don’t care to examine that question,
so I distract myself with another.
“Are you going to keep it,
or give it up for adoption?” I ask,
settling on the bench.
“Keep what?”
“The baby.”
“You crazy?”
LaVonne explodes.
“You see the way it’s already
messed up my life,
like the fact
I ain’t got one?
Keep it? Hell no!
The second this thing
is outta me, it’s history.”
I shudder, afraid to fathom
exactly what she means.
“If you feel that way, then why-”
I catch myself
sticking my nose in.
“Never mind.”
LaVonne’s cheeks balloon
then, ever so slowly,
her anger fizzes out, like air.
“I waited too long,” she mutters.
“So sue me.”
I hunch over
my mediocre lunch,
wolf it faster than I should,
and jet at the jangle
of the change bell.
As I hurry through the halls,
I touch my stomach, thinking,
Don’t worry, Junior.
It’s not like that
with you and me.
Lonely, my disappointment
pricks like a needle
burning through my skin.
“It’s all right,”
God whispers in my ear.
I hardly hear him, though.
I’m just glad it didn’t take long
to find out how wrong I was,
thinking LaVonne and me
shared more than
a superficial similarity.
Safe Haven
Last night,
I caught a news byte
while I set the dinner table,
something about
another baby being found dead.
“A needless tragedy,”
said the news woman.
Apparently, there’s this law:
If the mom was afraid
to keep her kid,
all she had to do
was to leave him
at the nearest hospital.
No questions asked.
The newswoman moved on
to the weather,
and I went back to
arranging utensils.
In between the clink
of knife, fork, and glass,
it hit me.
I maybe had heard something
about this law before.
I couldn’t exactly remember when.
Besides, I wasn’t paying
attention then.
Mother’s Day
Banana pancakes
are Mom’s favorite
Mother’s Day meal,
and I don’t disappoint.
I’m less messy than
when I was a kid,
but I still hold my breath until
she takes that first bite
and smiles.
She doesn’t know it yet,
but I’m treating her to a movie,
after church.
When we get there,
the pews are filled with moms
all dressed to kill.
Evangelist Pauline Devereax
gives the message.
It’s all about the mother
God handpicked
for his own son,
how she’s the one
we should look up to.
Don’t ask how many points
Sister Pauline ticked off
to prove her argument.
My human computer
only clicked Save on one:
She trusted God.
Who made her son on purpose,
who had a purpose for his life.
She trusted God
to see her child through.
“And so should you,” said Sister Pauline.
And all the church said,
“Amen!”
Proclamation
This evening on Joseph’s return
from the day’s labor,
his face is long, his jaw
unusually firm, as though
he has news I will not wish
to hear.
“I must go to Bethlehem,”
he says.
“Our family must be registered
for the Census.”
This makes no sense to me.
Yes, I understand that
the emperor’s decree is law,
but leave me? Now?
I breathe deep,
forcing my heart to slow.
“Husband,” I say,
“the child will be here any day.”
Joseph sighs and wraps me
in his arms.
“Forgive me, Mary,” he whispers.
“But I have no choice.”
I purse my lips and nod, thinking,
Then neither do I.
I nod, preparing
to bid my midwife farewell.
I nod, planning
what I will pack
for the journey.
“It is settled, then,”
I tell Joseph.
“We will both leave
in the morning.”
Journey
&nbs
p; What was I thinking?
The long, dry road to Bethlehem
is littered with rough rock
and regret.
Mother, I miss you!
Maybe Joseph was right.
Maybe I should have clung
to the comfort of home,
or else remained behind
with my parents until
Joseph’s return.
What kept me from it?
Only that this baby feels
ready to come into the world,
and when he does,
I want both his fathers near.
And what is there to fear,
midwife or no?
Women have born children
since time began, yes?
Besides, I will not be alone.
The Lord of Heaven is at my side.
The donkey ride is slow and bumpy,
but eventually, we are there.
“Look!” says Joseph, excited.
“The foothills of Shephelah!
Bethlehem is just beyond.”
The baby begins kicking me fiercely,
ready to see Bethlehem
for himself.
What If
What if
I keep my baby?
Mom lays it on me straight.
“I won’t lie to you,” she says.
“I’m here to help you,
no matter what.
But you need to understand
your life will be harder
than you can imagine.”
I try to. I do.
What would it be like,
daily diaper duty
and me still in school?
Would I nestle Junior
in a sling
across my chest?
Slot hot bottles of formula
in my backpack between
history books
and my English journal?
Get serious, I tell myself.
High school has no
show and tell,
and Junior isn’t It.
Idiot.
I curse myself
for thinking crazy.
“I’ll have to get a babysitter,”
I think aloud.
“Yes,” says Mom.
“And they’re expensive.”
And so are diapers,
bottles, vitamins, and
what about home?
My room’s already
an obstacle course
of daybed, desk, and dresser.
What am I going to do,
stick her in the top drawer,
laid out on a soft bundle
of clean socks and T-shirts?
Look at this place!
Lord knows,
there’s no space here
for a crib.
Besides,
my dreams for Junior
reach higher than
this ceiling.
God, I want the stars
for this kid.
At least, I want to want that,
you know?
Can you take care of him, Lord?
Take care of me?
I still want to see
whatever dreams
you always had in store
for my future.
I worry that I’m selfish,
but Mom says
I need to be true
to me,
to you.
Summer Break
Junior is especially
restless this morning.
He/she is somersaulting, I swear.
Is that possible?
“Calm down, in there,” I whisper.
“Everything’s okay.
School’s over on Friday.
Then you’ll have me
all to yourself.
And, in ten more weeks,
you’ll get to see your mom.
You’ll find out who she’ll be.
I’ll get to say hello,
and maybe say good-” No.
Don’t go there, Mister. Not now.
“Where was I? Oh!
You’ll get to play outside.
Till then, enjoy the ride.”
Coney Island Blah
In a way,
it feels like any other
summer Saturday afternoon,
the usual New York swelter
chasing a gang of us kids
out to the edge of the ocean.
But this trip to Coney Island
with Seth and friends
is blah.
Sure, I can block out the stares
of nosey passengers
on the long subway ride to Brooklyn,
and there’s still the flutter
in the pit of my belly
as the park rushes into view
through the train window.
But that’s all the excitement
I’m gonna get for the day
‘cause once I get there,
strolling the boardwalk broadway,
munching a cheesy slice of pizza
or one of Nathan’s juicy hot dogs,
and digging my toes in the sand
is all I’m good for.
There’s no strapping myself in
for a slow round ride
skimming the sky on
the Wonder Wheel,
or enjoying the screaming drop
of Astroland
or the Cyclone rollercoaster.
No sir.
No female whales allowed.
Maybe next summer.
If I can find a cheap
babysitter, that is.
No
“No” used to be
two squiggles on a page
that mostly meant nothing to me.
Now, suddenly,
those letters together
are like prison guards
telling me where to go,
what to do,
who to be.
Or not.
I keep asking myself
where did all my freedom go?
Then I remember:
I forgot to say no
when it counted.
“My sweet boy.” I coo
and cuddle him,
swaddled in white
and smelling of sweet oil,
thanks to the royal rubbing
Joseph gave him
after his birth.
Joseph was amazing,
holding my hand
through every piercing pang,
even though I squeezed his hand
till it was bloodless.
He caught the little one
as if he had done the same
a hundred times.
“Joseph the Midwife,”
I called him,
and he filled this barn
with laughter, startling
the cows and goats, I think.
I might sniff the hay and offal,
and look round this stall
meant for animals, and wonder
what it all means, that there
was no spare room for us
at the inn,
that we were forced to spend
the night in a barn.
But at this moment,
I only have eyes
for the bundle of love
who now lies
in my arms.
Jehovah-Jireh: The Lord Provides
Lord,
here is your son,
the one you shared with me.
May he grow strong
in my care, and Joseph’s.
Thank you for this good man,
and this beautiful boy.
Help us, Jehovah-Jirah,
to build a sturdy frame
for his future.
August Breakfast
I’m so glad
breakfast is my friend again.
I sit at the kitchen table
dividing my attention
between bites of toasted waffle
and the beginning
of Mary, Mary.
Why stop at the end
when you can read it
all over again?
“I loved that book,”
says Mom,
peeking over my shoulder.
“I know. You said.”
A thousand times before.
“It helped me when
I was carrying you.”
Food still in my mouth
(who cares?)
I tell her,
“Me too.”
Waterclock
Our trip to the Laundromat
interrupted.
The pool at my feet says
those dirty sheets
will have to wait awhile.
“Mom!”
“I’m right here, baby.
Let’s get this show
on the road.
My grandchild’s about
to make an appearance.”
My knees buckle,
a single thought threatening
to lay me flat:
You’re almost out of time.
Make up your mind
to keep your baby
or not.
I start to pant.
I can’t! I can’t!
I can’t decide.
Not yet.
Emergency Room
I waddle into the ER,
my heartbeat
the only sound I hear.
Is this really happening?
I look around,
see the slow ballet
of nurses, doctors, and orderlies
pushing beds and wheelchairs
with patients pale as ghosts.
Are they as scared as me?
Abruptly, a rude noise breaks in,
some tinny voice
squawking from a loudspeaker,
paging Dr. so and so,
and saying STAT
but flatter than they do on TV.
Palms sweaty, knees wobbling,
I wish this were a show
I was watching.
My thoughts bounce off
the cold white walls:
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
I tug on Mom’s sleeve.
“Mommy, let’s get out of here. Please.
I don’t want to be-”
OH, GOD!
What was that?
“Looks like labor,”
says a nurse.
“Come this way.”
Labor 101
Not bad,
I thought at first.
A minute of crazy pain,