Joseph

The day I never knew you
is one of the strangest 
of my life. It started with the tremor
of excitement I had felt every
morning since I imagined
your presence from the changes
in my body. I bathed
your brother—he was two—then took 
my own quick bath listening 
to him play. Your father
had left early on a short trip.
It was after cereal and toast
that I felt the first twinge
so subtle I thought I had lifted
heavy groceries or maybe mopped
too much the day before. Then
the blood. I begged my body
to stop; to calm; to become
the cradle of ribs and pelvis
a mother was meant to rock. My
neighbor wasn’t home. The one
on the other side either. I was afraid
to drive. I wondered if I
was dying. Then the knock
like a hopeful, audible heartbeat.
Two women stood on my porch
with baskets of gospel pamphlets.
Over those next hours, they drove
to Emergency, tended my toddler,
brought me home empty and stayed.
Never once did they tell me
about god. Trio of mothers, 
we spoke only the name I gave
the bright evidence of your life.