The Body Remembers

(a Poem)

Awakening, curled in a fetal position, I gaze
At the barren landscape outside my window.
The old oak tree stands alone,
Branches like arms against the gray sky,
Lifting, lifting, empty hands to the heavens.

Twenty winters ago, I remember another
Awakening — to a room full of women,
Cleaned out, vacant-eyed, silent.
And I along with the women, feeling
No pain but expecting it, wanting it.

And now that winter is here again
I wonder once more where they put
The tissue and blood, not yet
Fully formed into tiny hands and feet.
I long for that baby. I tenderly touch

The mound of my belly, holding
My hand there as if I can heal myself
Or will back the embryo.
The winter of my life approaches.
Soon, there will be no more talk

Of babies. The body remembers.