These pastel walls
Flat-stomached in the OB/GYN waiting room,
I’m an archetype of awkwardness, surrounded
by the bright tumble of blocks, beanie-babies
and well-thumbed copies of What to expect…
A radiant woman wrangles two toddlers
to the Lego, then lowers herself
into the last free seat, the one next me.
What’re you in for?
Menorrhagia.
Her eyebrows ask the question.
Dante’s periods.
Oh. Kids?
I shake my head.
No, Georgia. Give it
back.
She exhales a lovechild of a sigh and a chuckle.
One of my friends is
childless. I’m so jealous.
She tips her head back against the wall, closes her eyes,
her lie settling itself between us.
She’s being kind but the term child-free
is throwing itself against the bars of my smile.
I reach for my notebook,
in this moment
pregnant and gestating wildly.
My favourite bumper sticker:
ReplyDeleteWRITERS have the last word.
:)
DeleteWhat a brilliant poem. It's wonderful, Rachael. So perfectly timed, and judged. I love "Dante's periods". And I love the denoted speech of Ms. Smug. I've been in that pastel walled room, and met that smug woman.....oh yes. And I love and totally agree with what Rosemary said - yes! Your last line is such a fantastic final line.
ReplyDeletethis really made me cackle!
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