by Pat Brisson
away from me—
reaching out—
giving him away.
Confession
Gram?
Yes?
We need to talk.
Okay . . .
But please don’t say a word until I finish.
Sounds serious.
Remember that guy who got arrested for selling
drugs—
the one in the paper a few months ago?
Well, I did sort of know him . . .
You did?
Not really well, but more than I should have.
And he doesn’t know about what I’m going to tell you
because they arrested him
and took him off before even I knew.
But . . . well . . . I’m pregnant
and he’s the father.
Oh, Molly, no . . .
I’ve thought it through and decided
I’m going to have this baby
and give it up for adoption.
Are you sure that’s what you want to do?
Pretty sure, Gram.
Okay then. We’ll get through this.
We will, Gram?
Yes, we will.
A Difficult Day in Review
Told Ms. Butler I’m pregnant
Met with Ms. Chikowski, the school social worker
Told her I would give up the baby for adoption
Listened to a mini-lecture on how to have a healthy
pregnancy
Promised I would go to all my doctor’s appointments
Admitted Grady was the father
Was assured by Ms. Chikowski that they will find him
to get his consent
Agreed to meet with her at least once a month (next
time with Gram)
Took lots of deep breaths and told myself I can get
through this
Wondered if I’m just kidding myself
Okay Then, That’s Good, I Guess
The social worker, Ms. Chikowski, tells me
they’ve tracked down Grady.
I don’t ask where.
I don’t ask how.
I feel like
if I start asking questions
they’ll never end:Does he think about me?
Does he remember that day?
Did it mean anything special to him?
Did I?
What did he say when he found out I was pregnant?
Did he slam the table in disgust?
Did he deny it was his?
Did he regret not using a condom?
Did he wish I’d have an abortion?
Does he wish we were still together?
Would he like to hear from me?
Did he hope I’d keep the baby?
Does he want us all to be together someday?
So I risk only one:
Did he sign the paper
giving up his rights to the baby?
Ms. Chikowski’s eyes are kind.
She clears her throat.
“Yes,” she says,
“he did.”
The Fourth Month: Reality Check
I can’t button my jeans.
My breasts are still sore.
This is really happening.
I hope I made the right decision.
I Let Myself Imagine
I’m not fifteen.
I’ve graduated from college.
I’m married to the father of my child.
He helps with diapers, baths, and feedings.
We have a small apartment all our own.
Our jobs are good enough to pay our bills.
We love and trust each other,
are glad we have a baby,
are happy that we share each other’s lives.
My past is just a shadow.
My future gleams before me.
I love my life and wouldn’t change a thing.
Imitation
Ms. Butler asks us
if we’ve ever seen an artist
copying a famous work of art.
“Isn’t that illegal?” Kelly asks her.
“If he tries to pass it off as real,
but copying is how we learn to do things.
We imitate to see the way it’s done.
Little children copy both their parents;
junior athletes imitate the stars;
fashionistas start the trends for followers;
poets do it, too, and here’s your chance:
pick a poem. Copy something from it,
perhaps the rhyme or meter, voice, or style.
Take your time—see what it can teach you.
Don’t shy away from trying something new.”
I think this might be good advice for poets;
does it apply to having babies, too?
Walking Through School on a Winter Morning
after Robert Frost
Whose child this is I’m sure I know;
that guy is in a prison though.
I doubt he’ll ever come back here;
he’s gone for years, for selling snow.
The kids in school all think it’s queer
I won’t let other guys get near.
They think I’m like some frozen lake—
the Coldest Ice Queen of the Year.
A few weeks more and then I’ll shake
that title though. My Big Mistake
will show itself, and word will sweep
through all the school—she’s just some flake
who fell too hard, got in too deep.
This secret’s one I cannot keep—
won’t even try. (I just want sleep;
now all I want to do is sleep.)
To: Barb Subject: News
Hey, Barb,
Remember how I told you
they arrested Grady Dillon
and took him off to jail?
(I don’t know where.)
The thing I didn’t tell you was
we did It.
And something else I learned—
once is enough.
So now it seems
I’m gonna have a baby.
Oh, God!
I can’t believe it,
but it’s true.
I thought it through
and ruled out an abortion—
decided on adoption
in the end.
I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.
It’s been a crazy time for me.
Write soon.
Barb Is Less Than Enthusiastic
She writes back:
Pregnant???
And you’re going THROUGH with it??
Prickles in the back of my eyes
threaten to turn into tears
as I press the Delete button
and go into Shut Down mode.
At the Doctor’s Office
Holding a magazine, pretending to read,
I sneak a look at the others who are here:
a bright-red-lipsticked woman, big with baby,
tapping her fingernails on the arm of her chair;
a tired-looking mother with a toddler,
now on, now off, now on her lap again;
an older woman seriously holding
her purse, intently staring at her shoes;
one man, in tie and shirtsleeves,
an infant sleeping softly in his arms,
glancing at his watch, the door, the ceiling,
looking for a place to park his eyes,
uncomfortable in this all-female gathering
(his little baby’s even dressed in pink).
I close my eyes,
am silent,
draw one, long, ancient breath,
fill up my lungs with recognition and resolve.
I can do this, I tell myself, believing.
I’m not the first—it’s all been done before.
The Fifth Month: Still Time
It’s still cold enough
for sweatshir
ts,
baggy sweaters,
jackets loose enough to hide the bump.
It’s still small enough
to blame on too much pizza,
mocha lattes,
hot-fudge sundaes topped with extra nuts.
It’s still possible
that people haven’t noticed,
pigs are flying,
no one’s talking smack behind my back.
I’m still me,
but all this added cargo
makes me wonder
what “me” I am,
what “me” I will become.
Barb Writes Back
Sorry, Molly,
I overreacted.
I just can’t imagine
making the choice you did.
Call me
if you want to talk,
okay?
But for the first time
since I’ve known her
I just can’t think of anything
to say.
Photo Op
I drink the water like they say I should
and pray this wait will not be very long—
my bladder’s full; I really have to pee.
And is the baby sound asleep within?
Aware of my distress and lying still?
No! wide awake and doing martial arts.
Its tiny feet and little, fisted hands
both kick and punch in jerking leaps and twirls
upon the bloated stage of my insides.
I almost cry, I have to pee so bad.
What sadist planned the prologue to this test?
Would someone please come tell me that I’m next?
Then finally I’m called into the room,
lie down, expose my belly for the gel.
The scanner’s pressed and rolled across my skin.
I watch the monitor and strain to see
what all those shadows up there really mean.
I see a head and little arms and legs,
and then, “Oh, look!” A finger points: “See there?
No doubt about it—it’s a boy for sure.”
“A boy,” I whisper, as I blink and stare.
And when I pee—at last!—I take a breath,
adjust my thinking, give myself a chance
to take this bit of information in.
No longer just a baby, but a boy.
Somehow more real now than it was before.
But boy is more like Grady, less like me.
And I’m the one who’s pregnant—it’s not fair.
Why should you be like him and not like me?
And now it’s somehow other—not quite mine.
But then I stop myself, let out a sigh.
Don’t even go there, Molly—it’s not smart.
I rub my belly, tell him it’s okay,
and take this news and Little One to heart.
Shopping for Clothes Alone at the Mall
The mall around me swarms
with iPod-toting, cell phone-using, speed-dialing,
fast-forwarding, text-messaging,
DVD-buying, manicured, pedicured, hair-tossing,
Coach-carrying, credit card-maxing
Others.
Laughing, joking, hanging-out-together
Others.
I try to imagine them naked to console myself,
stripped of their laughing friends
and expensive accessories;
try to see them scared and lonely,
confused, bereft, betrayed.
(Alone, I have only you inside me:
fingers, hair,
heartbeat, blood,
bone.)
A Change from the Usual Teen Angst
Ms. Butler thinks it’s time for something fun.
“Don’t dwell so much on heavy stuff,
like heartbreak,
death, and
unrequited love.
Poetry is entertaining, too.”
She brings out limericks,
ballads,
Dr. Seuss.
Rhyming,
until now,
has been discouraged,
but now she says to try it.
“Stretch a bit.
Be silly;
try to make us laugh.
Choose a format and
see what it suggests.”
I like the feel of ballads
and end up doing two:
one to share
and one to keep to myself.
My Dog, Art: A Ballad
I had a little doggy once;
That doggy’s name was Art.
He couldn’t run, he couldn’t fetch,
But boy! that dog could fart!
One day I brought him to a show
So he could win a prize,
But fed him beans before we went
And that was not too wise.
I hoped that Art would be Top Dog
But he was not the winner.
The judges gagged; the judges choked.
“Did he have beans for dinner?
No prize for him!” the judges cried,
“And none for you—his master.
He smells so bad, it burns our eyes!
This dog is a disaster.”
Now that was just too much to take,
So Art and I departed,
But as we slowly left the scene,
He farted, farted, farted.
Some poets say that love is blind,
But more than blind, I think,
With dogs it’s more important that
You just don’t mind the stink.
The Ballad of Molly B. (with Asides by a Chorus of Old Biddies)
There was a girl named Molly B.
She was both fair and smart.
She found a boy she liked too well
And gave that boy her heart.
(Oh, maybe that was not too smart—
to give that boy her heart.)
He was a handsome stranger then,
And their attraction grew.
He seemed to like her well enough
But liked another, too.
(Alas! The cad! It’s sad but true—
he liked another, too.)
If Molly could do magic spells,
That girl would have been hexed,
But she was no magician, so
She told him she’d have sex.
(What’s that you say?
She’ll rue the day
she went and offered sex.)
It wasn’t quite the perfect time
That she’d been hoping for,
But she at least was certain now
That he would like her more.
(The poor misguided child thought
he’d really like her more.)
Too soon he upped and disappeared.
Sweet Molly worried plenty,
Then learned that he’d been dealing drugs—
He’s doing ten to twenty.
(For shame on that nefarious youth!
He’s doing ten to twenty.)
And all too soon poor Molly found
That she was now with child,
A fact she hadn’t counted on—
It nearly drove her wild.
(Ah! Quelle surprise! She’s pregnant and
it nearly drove her wild.)
She made her choice—to have the babe,
Then give it to another,
For she was not yet sweet sixteen—
Too young to be a mother.
(Oh, gosh! She’s young—
she’s much too young
to be somebody’s mother!)
Now Molly’s not the girl she was;
She’s wiser by the ton,
And when she once again has sex,
She’ll have protected fun.
(It’s much too risky otherwise,
so have protected fun.)
Our song is done—a lesson learned.
No use to cry or blu
bber.
Remember, if you’re having sex,
To always use a rubber.
(My dear, it’s true—
No sex for you!
unless you use a rubber.)
The Sixth Month: The Shoe on the Other Foot
I wonder,
if I had ended it early,
would I carry the idea
of that pregnancy the whole nine months?
Think of the weight I wasn’t gaining?
Pick a day some months ahead
and imagine giving birth?
Or would relief
so completely blot out my regrets
that I wouldn’t—even once—think
maybe I should have . . . ?
Because every day,
as I grow bigger with this baby,
feeling it kick and move inside me,
I remember myself in skinny jeans,
with no need for doctor’s visits,
no day of pain and labor looming straight ahead,
and, like a tongue finding the sore spot in a mouth,
I explore that other possibility and think
maybe I should have. . . .
Longing
Longing
coils within my heart,
spooling out in various directions:
skyward, past the stars,
through the gates of heaven;
through uncertain towns
in search of certain prison bars;
across miles