Days after
the first Monday
in September, class
rosters and seating charts
crisp with promise, I divine your
presence before two test lines confirm
it. Internal twinges and tenderness. Irritability.
Nausea. Textbook signs I keep to myself. Early days,
I pace locker lined halls or sit at my desk planning lessons,
your burgeoning cloaked in the loose drape of my blouse.
Soft swell hidden beneath books and bags slung belly up.
Tucked under the Formica lip of my desk. Mid-semester,
sideways standing in front of the room, one eye on the
chalkboard, the other on the class clown, I startle at the
flutter. Foreign. Familiar. A black-eyed butterflyfish
afloat. Before April blooms you somersault in your
bubble of amniotic fluid. I admire the ripple of
your dance, outstretched arm or bent leg,
across the buddha belly expanse. Concealed
still but the secret no longer ours. At night
I dream of a tidy delivery, a symbiotic
labor during prep period. I tuck you
into a rattly metal file cabinet
drawer safe among stacks
of lesson plans where
you snooze until the
final bell rings.
US 1 WORKSHEETS, Volume 68 , 2023
Elise Chadwick 