Today is the day my child did not arrive;

the calendar

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

numberless anniversary

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.