Infertility Group

Were we "growing"? Was it a "process"?

Several of us in a room once a week,

variations on a theme.

We thrashed inside our condition as in cocoons.

The cottony white webbing clumped in our throats.

Our arms were useless and aching. Our eyes, black

with staring into the future.

We couldn't tear ourselves away.

Emptying the dead blood, month upon month upon

month.

The choking sameness. There must be a way.

There must be. Then I was rescued.

Rescued by the fleece bunting,

rescued by the belly, the presents, the attention.

I was dragged into life by the baby girl,

and now I am her mother,

fat upon my throne.

I do not know what became of you,

the rest, who were not saved.

I couldn't bear to be near you any more,

who knitted your fingers while speaking

and stroked your stomach as if there were someone

in there.

Who yearned for your "munchkin":

now the brand name on my daughter's

Play-Doh-crusted sneakers.

Who wanted to name a little boy

after her murdered brother.

Have you hardened

to it? Have your white wrappings crystallized

into a sort of armor, creaking, straining. . .

Coupled or alone, leaning on sticks,

you pick your way through the serious, uninhabited

mountains.

Smaller now, and smaller,

but never out of my sight.