Waiting

I check the inbox before my eyes are open,

my thumb just moving, like I'm really hoping

that somehow the results will be there,

that I can force them through the air

by pressing refresh, by willing it to be true,

by doing this seven times, eight, maybe nine times through.

The circle spins the same way every time—

patient, mechanical, keeping time

with my panic, with my racing thoughts.

The clinic said 2-3 days. I'm caught

between belief and dread. It's day four.

I've already checked my inbox a hundred times or more.

The email is clean. Just promotions,

receipts, reminders, no notifications

of the thing I'm waiting for, the knowledge

that will either comfort or break me. College

kids probably have it easier. They don't

check their inbox this many times. They won't.

But I do. I will. Again.

The cursor blinks. I try to pretend

I'm not addicted to this specific torture,

this specific way my hope gets shorter

and shorter with each empty refresh,

each nothing, each "your inbox is fresh,"

which is a lie because nothing is fresh,

nothing is clean, nothing is new,

and I'm still here, waiting, waiting for you—

for the results, I mean. For the thing I need to know.

I refresh. Still nothing. The cursor glows.