From now on,
boy or girl,
my baby’s name
is Junior.
After seeing her
busy little fingers,
his sturdy little thighs,
the word “it”
no longer applies.
Maybe it’s
something I ate,
something I drank,
something I should have.
Whatever the reason,
Junior’s got me
against the ropes,
kicking like crazy,
sparring in the dark.
My days are quiet
without Mother near
to chide me
or join me round
the grindstone,
or tempt me with a spoonful
of some savory new stew
from her cooking pot.
A lover of silence,
even I have had enough.
Come quickly, little one!
Fill this home with the music
of voices.
The life of a new wife
is too lonely.
No matter what Joseph says
there are still lentils to be found
in the marketplace,
though I have purchased
more than my share.
And who could blame me?
Is there anything better than
chopped leeks and garlic
simmering in a lentil stew?
Joseph wrinkles his nose
as he crosses our threshold,
day after day, after day.
I smile a weak apology,
wanting nothing more
than another bowl
of that delicious stew.
I trudge to the village well
in the heat of the day,
anything to avoid
those nasty gossips.
My secret joy
is cleverly hidden beneath
two layers of clothing
falling in folds, and folds,
and folds of softest wool.
Even so, at six months,
neighbors begin
to count the full moons
since my marriage.
I hear them wonder aloud
how Joseph’s seed
could so quickly
take root in me.
No one dares charge me
to my face, of course.
They simply lace their speech
with gossip about
the girl who is, perhaps,
too soon with child,
all the while
pretending piety.
God!
Please deliver me
from this vicious venom!
I wish they would widen
the spaces between market stalls.
All I seem to do anymore
is squeeze between small spaces.
I suppose I am just too-
Oh!
Leah and I bump bellies.
She is the first to laugh
and soon, I join her.
“Shalom, Mary,” she says.
“Shalom, Leah.”
She is a neighbor
I have scarce shared
ten words with before.
I suppose it is because
she is a few years older,
though that hardly matters,
now that we are both
mothers-to-be.
We have much in common.
We interrupt our shopping
to trade notes on midwives,
and whose expected one has
the strongest kick.
I love Hadassah,
but I long to have a friend
who truly understands
what I am going through.
And now, thank God,
I do!
Three days running,
Joseph has missed
the evening meal.
I ask why,
but all I get for an answer
is “busy.”
Enough!
Even a strong man
grows weak without food.
I waddle about the house
throwing together a basket
of bread and cheese,
figs and grapes,
and a skin of wine.
I make my way
to his carpentry shop
out back.
Heavy as I am,
I manage to slip in
without drawing his attention.
Yet I am the one in for
a surprise.
Joseph, brows knit
in concentration,
bends over a handcrafted
baby bed.
I gasp at its beauty,
and Joseph, startled, looks up.
“Well, now you see,” he says.
“The sanding is almost done.
All that remains
is a bit of carving.”
I find it impossible to speak.
“Now that you have taken a peek,
what do you think?” asks Joseph.
I lay a hand over my heart
and let the love in my eyes
say all.
a♦dopt, v.t. 1. to choose for or take to oneself; make one’s own by selection or assent: to adopt a name or idea. 2. to take as one’s own child, specif. by a formal legal act.
– The American College Dictionary
Mom mentions the A word
and I shiver from heart
to heel,
asking why my own mother
would advise me
to throw Junior away.
“It’s not like that,” she says.
“It’s love giving life a chance.
It’s giving the gift of joy,
girl or boy,
to an anxious couple
waiting for a child
to pour their love into
like a holy, healing potion.
So trash the notion
of throwing your baby away.”
My pulse pares down
to a steady rhythm.
“Did you ever consider
giving me away?”
“Things were different then,”
says Mom.
“I never would have seen
your sweet face again.
Nowadays, with open adoptions,
that’s all changed.”
I nod, understanding
at least a little.
“No promises,” I tell her,
giving Junior
a reassuring rub.
“I’ll think about it.”
At least,
I can chew on it now
seeing as how
the word adoption
no longer leaves
a bad taste
in my mind.
These days
when I pass Trey
in the hall
smooth-talking
his latest,
all I feel for him
is sorry
‘cause underneath those
lovely lashes,
his eyes are dead.
Funny how
I finally
notice that now.
Damn.
Sorry Lord, but
some gremlin must’ve
snuck into my room
in the middle of the night
and jammed syringes full of water
into my ankles. Again.
Tell me they don’t look
like blowfish
attached to the anchors
of my feet!
LaVonne squeezes up
to the lunch table
at eight months,
her belly nearly big enough
to rest her tray on.
She’s an island in a sea
of cool kids
and I can’t stand to see her
all alone, again.
That will be me real soon.
I pay for my sloppy joe
and OJ, and make my way
across the cafeteria.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask LaVonne.
“You sure you want to?
Might give you a bad name,” she says.
“The way I figure,” I tell her,
“we’re two of a kind.”
LaVonne snorts,
eyeing my middle.
“Not yet.
You’re hardly showing.
Just wait.”
Why do the last two words
weigh heavy on the air?