When they told us tomorrow was pregnant
there was no X-ray machine for our eyes to take snapshots of what tomorrow's belly carried
still, we grasped the wrist of hope and lingered
when others conflagrated their bridges
and all we fell into were gallows—
where dreams are strangled
as though they committed a capital offense against life.
I don't know what the therapist now says to a battered heart
carrying the crucifix of depression—
trust your body's wonder
it will glow
your blossom is a caterpillar's body
waiting to morph into a butterfly
Has hope not betrayed us many times?
Have we not got wounded while waiting?
Nice poem!