The Maynard
Spring 2020

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Six Gray Moons on a Screen

1

We were name-making.
Violet for its heart-shaped leaves.
Patricia, the name chosen for my brother
if he was a girl.
My husband wanted April, his mother’s hope
after three sons. If a boy,
Ethan, meaning strong,
or Joshua, generous. Shards
picked up between thumb and forefinger,
far-flung slivers
when the month’s work of my body
shattered.

2

At seven days, the body flushes
hope. The nurse said
You don’t have to worry about the embryos.
I think of the flash river near my house,
a leaf sprout carried downstream
and hours later it’s sand.


3

An article says, heaven
is populated by the souls of embryos
conceived, unknown, lost
in menstrual flow, not mourned.
But ours were six gray moons on the screen.

4

They said, There’s always adoption.
They said, God has a plan.
They said, It’ll happen.
Trust me, you’re lucky you don’t have kids.
They said, Hang in there.
They said, Focus on your career.
My husband just looks at me and I get pregnant.
They said, Just relax, go on vacation.
Maybe you weren’t meant to have kids.
They said, You’ve got plenty of time.
They said, You can try IVF again.
It’s not the end of the world.
They said. They said
everything, but, sorry.

5

I saved the cloth picture frame
spotted with yellow, blue and pink.

6

We met in a hot tub,
a gin bottle in the snow.
My husband knew the star clusters:
Diamond, Beehive, Jewel Box,
Wishing Well, Pleiades, Pearl.
The mountain trails sloped in the dark.
Under the constellations’ bright forms
our knees touched, and we danced
and sat on the couch, and then went back to our separate rooms.