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.