There is a sense
that we’re all in this together,
and yet it worries me.
I am a doctor’s
three forty five appointment.
Where is Juanita?
That woman to my left –
she must be eight months also.
No doubt she feels the kick
as I do.
And there’s the other one –
a girl really –
younger than me.
She’s at the crossroads
of pride and apprehension.
Mute mouth,
but her eyes keep
the conversation going.
I want to scream out,
“I am so different
from the both of you.”
But how could I
make it come out
and not sound like a lie?
See our chubby cheeks,
slovenly clothes,
our swollen bellies.
We are all pregnant.
We look as if
we got this way
so others won’t have to.