Today is the day my child did not arrive;
has the smudge of a black-letter day.
Like the good father I might’ve been
I’ve cancelled the date
I had with myself
to spend this
of his un-birth with him—
to coo over the translucent
gray photos of him
curled into the act of becoming.
This is the day he moved
from his mother’s body to a vacancy in mine.
It’s the day
he’ll come shimmering out,
bright as the sun.
We’ll celebrate his almost-ness
with our annual walk to the toy store—
I’ll hear him laugh, almost,
and when we race down the street
almost catch up to him.
I’ll hold his might-have-been hand,
shorten my steps to match his.
I’ll look both ways
and we’ll cross
past loss, past sorrow. Inside the store
I’ll survey the gleeful shelves;
I’ll buy him something
that whirrs and squeaks and rattles.
fiction poetry "fact" photography