How lucky men are to spread their seed then grow confused as to how to tend a garden.
How hopeful of my body to pour every ounce of me into something that had already stopped growing.
What a familiar grief.
In the shower I rub the stomach where your presence tried to make a home.
Maybe one day, but not now.
I am laughing through tears because I am exhausted, trying and failing to stay upright in the water.
I know that to have you,
I would have had to sacrifice my body, my life. My last act of selflessness.
But who would tell you the intricacies of how you came to fruition? A manifestation of the divine.
And a violent reminder of my fragility.
Page artwork; Summer Interior by Edward Hopper
