deepundergroundpoetry.com

Nine

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place

“Ash Wednesday” -T.S. Eliot; after “The Hollow Men” T.S. Eliot


Not with a bang but a whimper we discover on
the eve of our fourth anniversary, following years
of a conception improbability. We surrender
our dreams of having a family for Icelandic tours, and
 weekly Manhattan martinis. What gives you away
is three weeks of nausea and an incessant craving for lime.
We pee on a stick and start scrapbooking promptly.
We cottage with parents, still keep you a secret for
weeks tenderly observing your growth; I find it sublime
and precious because I know that time is always time.

Trimester two, there is so much to do.
The furniture rearranges, necessities ordered:
a carrier, a car seat, a chemical-free bassinet.
Fireworks expel into tiny pink stars, revealing
your gender at our family picnic. I miss them while
throwing up near a brush of the mean Herb-of-Grace.
Your Nannas start knitting warm blankets, and
sweaters in pastel palettes of pre-softened cotton. We
want the best for you, buy more for our space though
we know place is always and only place.

Auntie Jane hosts a baby shower, by now I’m quite
tired. We scrub adulthood from our apartment and call
that child-proofing; our home fills with locks and stable gates.
Check our car brakes, pack carriers for the day, we can’t wait.
Dad gains fifteen pounds with me, for sympathy, he says
though admittedly I’m jealous of him still drinking wine.
Others tell me I’m ready to birth, very heavy, swelled
ankles, poor strength, waddling, carelessly succumbing
to hunger for sex and sweet treats on a dime;
aware that what is actual is actual only for one time.

Afternoons liquifying before your arrival.
Some blood and an accompanied ride to the hospital,
one overnight bag, and the sorrow-filled faces of
nurses and doctors and dad and your grandparents
and I couldn’t remember for even one moment you’ve
stopped breathing in your space.
Birthing a corpse like we have no connection, maternal
me dies with your little blue body; I fail you, I fail us. If
only we rewind time, change outcome for this one case.
Just for this one time. And only for one place.
Written by ursa
Published
Author's Note
this form is a glosa. First one I have ever written and really like the form. It may be a little more structure than it looks.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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