Poetry

What You Do

You take a class.

You spend several afternoons trying to get a straight answer from your insurance company.

You learn how to give yourself shots.

They take your blood.

Your mother comes to visit.

You stop having sex.

You drink a lot of water.

You look at your embryos on a computer screen.

You decide to freeze some.

You’re not sure what else you would do. Not freeze them?

You talk lucidly about the surgeon’s son’s chances of getting into a top-tier college during the implantation.

You sort of think, “Why the fuck are we talking about this now?” But you keep talking about it.

You finally get to pee in a bedpan. The nurse pretends to be cool about it, but you can tell she’d rather you held it.

You hold hands.

You like it quiet.

The other couple talks a lot.

You know that this much waiting makes people crazy.

You yourself are crazy with hope.

You go home.

You have fears.

You do the shots.

You wait for the call.

You feel something.

Your mother leaves.

---Carly Moore (poet, a former colleague of mine)