I wake in the middle of the night
and imagine I feel the flutter
budding in my belly, low, slow-
growing;
you,
baby not yet bodied inside me.
Each month you return, etch
your edges into my softest place—
sweet something
almost possible,
while my husband sleeps beside me
I ask again,
are you there yet?
and listen, though the only sound
is the slip of my hands
as they settle on my stomach,
rounded with breath.
If anything is sacred, it’s this—
the dream taking shape in the dark,
my fingers templed over emptiness,
praying you to life.
