The first time, they asked,

“What do you hope it will be?”

She replied, naturally,

“I want a girl like me,

and show her all the wonderful things

I have learned and seen.”

Sadly she would never come,

cry for love or suck her thumb,

but for some odd weeks she was everything

she could have been.

Deeply wounded,

yet they all chimed,

“You’re young and spry.

You’ll heal in time.”

.

The second time they asked,

“What do you hope it will be?”

She said, of course,

“I just want a healthy baby.”

So she worried every morning,

and worried every night,

for a life she had to wonder

would ever see the light.

But the life inside her grew,

and the fear went nice and cold,

so she couldn’t understand

why he died  an hour old.

And they forgot about the first time,

so meaningless, when they said,

“It hurts, but she’ll be pregnant again.

It’s not like she’s dead.”

.

The third time, the question;

almost satirical.

Hope is long gone

and she needs a miracle.

So she prayed to God.

She ignored their pity.

She was good to her body,

and dreamed what could be.

That baby girl,

or baby boy,

in all their splendor

—a familial joy.

But in the end,

there was nothing.

No babe to hold,

or song to sing.

None would ever come to be.

No second chances,

and definitely not three.

No future mother,

and no family

for the first time

it was an ectopic pregnancy.

.

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