#12

1.

she whispers while she wanders
around the kitchen, looking
for a spoon. she pushes pudgy
fingers in the drawer, groping

for her treasured utensil.
balancing a pint of cherry
flavored ice cream in the crook
of her arm, she glows when

the spoon sparkles at her from
the drainer in the sink. she picks
it up and examines it carefully,
the way it shines, how the cool

silver feels against her fingertips.
she waddles into the living room,
where her doting husband sits,
his ice cream and spoon already

in hand. she snuggles up next to
him on the scratchy couch. she
thanks him for driving all the
way across town at this ungodly

hour just to get her ice cream.
it was cold outside, a huge snowstorm
had made it's way into their little
bubble of a life. she was hoping

that the baby wouldn't decide to
come when the roads were bad
because she would be nervous
enough as it was.

outside, the darkness enveloped
their entire yard, her garden,
the cars, the cats, the garage,
and sealed it with a frigid kiss.


2.

weeks ago, when her body was
thinner and she was still in
summer clothes, a sweltering
august evening produced the

moment of conception. they'd
talked about the possibility
of another child, but it wasn't until she
looked at him and felt her wetness

creep out from some forgotten
part of her anatomy, that the possibility
became a reality. they didn't talk,
just hastily undressed, thankful to

be in their skin on a night when it was
still eighty degrees outside in the
early hours of the morning. the cool,
crisp sheets of their bed couldn't compete

with the cold shower that would come after.
his hand touched her and it burnt, she forgot
about breathing and let herself fly. when his
eyes asked her if she was certain, she placed

her mouth on his and told him with a lovers
code that yes, she was certain, and afterwards,
when the cool water bristled her skin, she looked
down at herself and she knew.