here, poked there, manipulated
internal organs, assessing any damage;
and finally, like the act could be a gift,
checking mammary glands for signs
of blockage. [Whose gift—his or mine?]
Nope, I didn’t exactly hurry in for that.
Too late now. [Hopefully not too, too late.]
Shut up. I can’t be pregnant because I won’t
be pregnant. There, I’ve made up my mind.
But Lying Here
Next to Trey, who has somehow
managed to attain sleep on our
last night together, possibility
piles on possibility.
Possibly,
I’m pregnant.
Possibly,
I’ve damaged the baby.
Possibly,
I will choose to abort.
Possibly,
Trey won’t support me,
won’t even come back to me.
Possibly,
he’ll settle down with the pretty
girl in Stockton.
Possibly,
he’ll settle down with some
other pretty girl in Stockton.
Probably,