After the Fertility Test


Empty is a strange destination,
like arriving at the end of the party.
My mom believes the softness
of my hips goes against what is true,
& there must be some gentler deficiency,
the kind where I am not to blame.


I go home, I clean, dust & polish figurines,
big-bellied Buddhas & Mary in her blue robes.
I cook, I burn the garlic,
empty swells in every direction.
I avoid your gaze, I want your hands.
Even broken, the body carries on with its small tasks.


Wholeness isn’t for everybody,
not oranges, not worlds—always halved, always rended.
                     The empty drips between the lack & its name—
                                 the one we decided on—meaning promise.
                                  The one we don’t say.

Read on . . .

Karyotype and Other Poems” by Rebekah Denison Hewitt

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