We sit on the worn burgundy loveseat
waiting. We came to see the sonography
of our unborn child.
Casting side-ways glances
at the other couples—
I can feel their tension,
their joy.
All eyes studder-stop on the
lone figure
in the waiting room.
She fidgets & crinkles the glossy
pages of People Magazine,
her eyes glancing at pages
indifferent to the signs and signifiers—
like a cheating student—she only
sees others' answers.
My glances turn to peepshow guilt.
Her name is called.
She responds, an antiphon.
I never saw her again
but the bulge of her stomach
made me feel as if God was in the room.
*This the semi-finalized draft of a poem posted sometime last year.
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