Digging up old poetry journals has caused me to both cringe and wonder why I don't make the time to write verse anymore. For much of my life poetry was cathartic. Let's just say I released a lot of hurts onto the page, and because said poems involve people I still love dearly, they probably won't find their way onto this blog.
Since I've had kids, I've only written a handful of poems. I guess motherhood took hold and my brain scattered so far and wide, and any chance for coherent thought was lost to me.
One poem I found yesterday was written while I was trying, hoping, longing to get pregnant for the first time. I still like it.
Waiting for Grace
Three minutes—
I try not to look.
Instead I unravel a string on my sleeve
and think about the other woman
praying
for a different outcome.
Plastic oracle flat on white porcelain
transforming a stream of urine
into an answer.
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