When you tell me that you’re pregnant,
don’t expect me to do cartwheels
praise to God for your good fortune
jump for joy in jubilation
writing sonatas on the wall.
When you tell me he can walk now
don’t expect me to unravel
screaming tidings to the temple
touching the floor he treads on
taking notes of every step
in awe or disbelief.
When you tell me he can talk now
don’t expect me to create a parade
with the words that have formed
from the lips that slipped out flowing
unknowing of the sadness
sinking deep inside me.