The Visiting Hour
he came in his seedy brown jacket smelling of paint. all
thumbs, a man stumbling over his own muscles, unable to
hold some part of himself and rock it, gently. she gave
up, seeing him come in the door, wanting to show him her
flat belly just an hour before, looking at her own corpse
in the mirror. she lay there reduced, neither virgin nor mother.
it had been decided. the winter was too cold in the garage.
they would live with her mother. the old bedroom was
already prepared, cleaned, the door opened. the solitary
twin bed remained; he would sleep on the porch.
she looked at him and tried to feel her way into the body
of a woman, a thing which has to be taken care of, held
safely in his arms.
she lay there, trying to hold on to what she had, knowing
she had to let it go.
Copyright Credit: Toi Derricotte, "The Visiting Hour" from Natural Birth. Copyright © 2000 by Toi Derricotte. Reprinted by permission of Toi Derricotte.
Source: Natural Birth (Firebrand Books, 2000)