A bubble gum cigar left on my desk today.
Taunting me; baby-pink with bold letters:
It’s a girl.
I never understood cigars as celebration for new life;
The men with their smug grins, patting each other on the back
As if they were responsible for anything other than spitting their seed into a womb.
As if they have control over things like babies dying or mothers grieving
The pride of predictability reeling to snatch up their hopes and dreams
for their unborn carbon-copy.
It’s a girl.
Her Kermit-legs flopping from the sugar of Sunny Delight
Kicking her way into our hearts; she is no longer a blob on a screen.
I am unable to possess the self-control to keep it a surprise.
It’s a daughter.
Later that day, I accidentally refer to the ultrasound pictures as “her”
And my family bursts into laughs and exclamations of joy
All of us mapping the future for this long-awaited miracle.
You never understand the life you willed for someone
Until that life is taken.
Who was I to have plans from the start?
Who am I to assume the better in this worse world?
Baby pink balloons
kissing the sky where you rest.
I was never able to be showered with celebration for your arrival
I chew up the bubble gum;
it tastes like powder and envy