Twenty weeks and one day
my mother said "I never knew
this place was here," one floor
above the optometrist's office.
A waiting space for girls
who waited too long,
changed their minds, ignored
the signs -- and each other -- as I did.
Twenty weeks and two days
my mother drank scotch, said
"you're wearing that dress
again." The one from Guatemala,
flowers floating on turquoise waves.
"I don't want anyone to know."
I drank the scotch my mother poured.
"You don't show; I never did."
As if I could come from this.
Twenty weeks and three days
sticking to a vinyl table,
dress hiked up, panties discarded,
feet in stirrups, laminaria
forcing my cervix open.
Twenty weeks and four days
in a room filled with brown recliners,
afghans covering our empty laps,
smiling our valium drips, knowing
we'd never see each other again.
Twenty weeks and five days
I threw the dress from Guatemala away
buried it with coffee grounds, cantaloupe
rinds, and the gristled remains
of a steak dinner.
Twenty weeks and six days
in the air-conditioned
mall between Sears and Penny's,
my breasts leaking
a mother's unused milk.
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