Return to Top of Page
Menu
  • Close
  • About Us
  • Contributors
  • Donate
  • Opportunities
  • Staff
  • Submissions
  • 20 Years
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Search Website
Literary Mama
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
  • Departments
  • Blog
  • Newsletter

Poetry | October 2013

What You Do

By Carley Moore

You take a class.
You spend several afternoons trying to get a straight answer from your insurance company.
You learn how to give yourself shots.
They take your blood.
Your mother comes to visit.
You stop having sex.
You drink a lot of water.
You look at your embryos on a computer screen.
You decide to freeze some.
You’re not sure what else you would do. Not freeze them?
You talk lucidly about the surgeon’s son’s chances of getting into a top-tier college during the implantation.
You sort of think, “Why the fuck are we talking about this now?” But you keep talking about it.
You finally get to pee in a bedpan. The nurse pretends to be cool about it, but you can tell she’d rather you held it.
You hold hands.
You like it quiet.
The other couple talks a lot.
You know that this much waiting makes people crazy.
You yourself are crazy with hope.
You go home.
You have fears.
You do the shots.
You wait for the call.
You feel something.
Your mother leaves.

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Share This Page

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Email
  • Copy Link

Carley Moore

Learn More

Subscribe to Our Newsletter

Don't miss out on Literary Mama news and updates

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Instagram
  • RSS

© 2023 Literary Mama | Search Site | About Us | Staff | Submissions | Privacy Policy