My Summer Child

a poem

The summer is almost over,
and I wait to give birth to death.

I make a fist so I do not cry. I ask
God to see me. Hear me. To shine 
a floodlight of astounding mercy - 
one that does not grow dim in the 
fog of this particular grief - this 
sorrow with its small fingers, like 
grains of rice, and a heartbeat that, 
for months, thumped an imagined 
future, making us smile, and plan, 
and argue over baby names. 

We wanted to meet you so badly.

After a pounding rain, the sunflowers in 
my garden now bow their heads, with
stems gone crooked from the weight of 
water and seed. There is no joy waiting at 
the end of this. No warm, squirming life to 
hold as I heal from the wounds of the fall. I 
had begun to imagine all the ways you would 
change our lives, scrambling up onto the couch, 
taking your place, squished beside your sister, 
in-between mom and dad. Belonging.

At Walmart, they already have fall decorations
lining the aisles; paper plates featuring orange 
and yellow leaves. Soon, daylight will be replaced 
by early dark, cool breeze, then the first freeze. 
But today, the sun beats down on me like an
insensitive uncle, pointing to my belly and asking 
when I am due. It is the hottest part of summer in 
South Dakota, and I am panting in fruitless labor. 

I am delivering you. 

Cover image by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger