In our version your father kneels beside me
on the receding checkered tiles,
waiting to receive the news.
You float before us, raiment billowing,
your long boyhood curlsblond and bright as lightning.
I am praying the usual prayer,
something about protecting you
from illness or danger.
Your words travel their diagonal trajectory
like a bullet
into my ear, through my brain, into
my bloodstream. My womb quickens.
What was only dread has
taken up residence.
I am not full of grace.
I am not blessed among women.