when I told you I was pregnant

    You asked me
how that happened, as if
this were somehow my fault, as if
I had done something wrong, as if
two people sharing the same bed,
the same name, the same life
should not expect this
    as a natural course of action.

    You told me
not to tell anyone, as you
walked out of our kitchen, as you
spent three days in your garage, as you
spoke little to me…then more…
but still scarcely a word about the life
inside of me,
    until I almost miscarried.

    Then
you laid your head in my lap, as I
waited for the morning, as I
held my breath for a miracle, as I
bit my tongue and fought back tears
when you said this was your fault
for not wanting our son
    enough.

    After months
of secret keeping, I could
finally tell our friends and family, I could
stop hiding my swollen abdomen, I could
engage in rituals of expectancy
save one…
I have never known the joy
    of the discovery.

You stole that from me
    and can never give that back.