My Body

Attempts​ a Future

​

The pain rose without cause,
a small contraction
for a child
who never arrived.

My sister-in-law
held her newborn.

My body replied
as if instructed,
as though memory existed
before experience.

A doctor said,
coincidence.

My mother said,
desire.

I said
the body writes its own fictions
when the mind
stays quiet
too long.

The pain left,
but a red warmth stayed
in the ribs —

a stain without source,
like salsa on white cloth
long after the cloth
forgets the meal.

No miracle.
No omen.

Only the body
rehearsing a life
it may never receive,

​

and leaving
a small heat
to show
it once hoped.