Fleeting hope– will it ever escape,
Or does it lie to us, rehearsed and restrained?
I watch as she withers beneath measured light,
Wondering if our devotion is still right.
If it were mine to bear, I’d take the ache from her mind,
Bottle it, label it, and leave it behind.
Still, we whisper “maybe” like a practiced prayer–
It’s my fault we can’t, and she must be the one to bear.
Too cold is the room where we try to kindle life,
We beg that it brings some fire in these dark times.
Love translated through sterile tubes and centrifuge,
All the tools at our disposal, hands gloved and precise.
We trust that none of them fail us.
It’s a song and dance– timed steps, borrowed joy,
Waiting for meaning in bloodwork and ultrasounds.
And though I don’t know what waits at the end of this road,
I hold the image of her like a promise–
Soft, unblemished, but alive.
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