This tightrope I walk, between hope and reality
is cutting my feet in half and might slice me up to my knees or hips
The promise of a nursery darkened by the possibility
or is it reality
of death. Empty crib. Empty carseat. Empty arms. Empty belly.
Tomorrow I will buy you a bassinet, if I’m strong enough.
Knowing that it will be filled when you are born.
Maybe with tears.
Maybe with you.
I think it will be with you. I hope it will be with you.
Better the tears fall in your hopeful bassinet than on the floor.
Better I think of you alive. Better I hope.
Better a beating hopeful heart to receive you.
Or my heart will shrivel up in safety and forsake your story.