Drowning in the lens of clear milk, the nursing student waits for my
shadow
to fill the gown as though my bones are made of obedient snow.
I wiggle down into the footprints of other women, toes flossed in
cotton mittens.
She’s nice enough, the doctor in pearls, her belt locked so tightly that
I wonder
if she ever cleanses the work-day from her skin. The mold of
mothers
dying beside their babies, spatulas to pry O’Keefe paintings from
their canvassed riverbeds.
I pretend the gown is my wedding dress all over again. Grippy socks
as heels, glitter of family still there. As she bends, her pearls click and
chatter.
Waxy strips hide the craft beads purchased in bulk. I lay back
into the most primal position any woman could know.
Bear down tightly for me one more time. She asks, divots wells into
my flesh.
Does miscarriage count as giving birth? I ask, tenderly. I gather more
mess.
No one on the planet feels the cotton nose sneezing soul inside.
It only hurts for a moment.
