Unfolding
by Megan M. Cutter
Shoulders collapsed
in the floor of the black van with tinted windows
so no one can see
me
heaving,
every cell that was
stitched together
falling
back apart
as I am forced to
face the birthing I will never know.
Becoming part of the invisible.
In the light,
we smile, of course; we are supposed to.
I have practiced mine diligently
so that I don’t quiver
when I must listen to other celebrations
hating the frenetic energy building
up
with no where to go,
but silent sobs gulped down
before they can escape.
At dinner parties,
dipping the edge of cracker into hummus
so words can’t be spoken.
To answer. To justify.
What would they say anyway.
Instead,
standing outside of the woman’s circle
staring at melting ice cubes
invisible teardrops
that shed
worries
held in the wrinkles of a woman’s skirt.
Stunned,
pulling the breath out of our bodies
fighting to return to who we believe we are;
there must be some purpose,
some reason
no one prays for children
with unspoken names.
I will.
On the floor of a van, with shaking hands grasping
the steering wheel
moving onto the road without crisp directions,
the path unfolding.