The Waiting Room

I held it like a package I'd been asked to sign for,

the weight correct, the warmth exactly where it should be,

but nothing moved inside me.

She watched my face for the thing that doesn't come.

I made my face do what it was supposed to.

The baby made small sounds, animal sounds,

and I waited for the click, the moment the door opens

and you become a person who knows what this means.

Nothing.

Just the insistent heat of a small body,

like holding a heater, like holding

something that has no idea

what it's asking of you.

I gave it back.

She smiled like I'd been okay.