The night of the day your
conception is announced
to us, I dream—no, I hear
your intended gender told
to me by whomever does
the speaking in our sleep.
That voice tells me a girl has
already started her journey,
and unlocks a longing in me
I have not yet known.
This peanut, this peach, this
grapefruit grows, not only in her
mother’s womb, but in a space
saved in my barrenness, like
ancient Sarah—just in case,
just in case, just in case.
