There is a space right in the center of a woman’s breast,
stretching between her waiting arms,
that craves a baby. It aches to be filled with the
soft bounce of new flesh, the warmth of new life.
It was here that I felt the wishbone break and
suddenly Thanksgiving was over. Celebration was
tossed aside as I snapped apart and became empty.
The hollow of the marrow leaked a plague stain –
bright red between my thighs. The world was silent
noise, all scurrying and rushed, while whispers passed
and the nurse stepped back as I shattered on her table.
She said, “There is no heartbeat.” and I thought instantly
of a washing machine – the steady thwump, thwump, thwump,
and knew that someone had turned it off.
Someone had snapped the wishbone and I was all
hollow marrow and no heartbeat.
© Laura A. Lord, 2016
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