Nine Months

Nine months has come and gone.
Nothing is what it was and
too much is the same.


I look out the kitchen window
at the yard, full of boxes and yesterdays
and zinnias and sunflowers too
not knowing at the time how important
the sprouting of seeds could be.

The backyard is spotty, patchy
where the dogs had come in after the geese.
The house has become empty walls.

You’ve unearthed the trueness of yourself
and I am having your child.


Inside, the walls hold me
weeping every time you let me down
and they no longer sustain me.
There are cobwebs, dirty tiles.


You step into the morning
and speak with eyes
your misgiven love for what those walls gave
when we needed it the most.

Who do you love, baby? Who do you love?


c. Melissa K. Dalman, 2005