The Name We’re Yet to Speak
in the first trimester nauseous and dehydrated
my wife discovered she could stomach
ice if not much else, tall plastic tumblers
loaded to the brim, the threat of an IV drip spurring
each frigid suck leading to one last bony crunch
over and over until it was time
to sleep, or at least try to, and in this way
we were all kept alive, molten plasma eventually cohering
into cool, statuesque features, ribs unfurling like a wing
feather by feather, segments of a heart erupting
in sparks of red and blue, all this craft taking place
in the shadow of a curtain of flesh, swelling
as if to prophesy the final unveiling
and now that the nausea and the thirst have returned
I find myself refilling the ice trays again
scrambling to be some kind of succour, her body
curdling as it puts on its final touches
while between snatches of violent sleep
I fan her scalding feet, our fevered minds searching
for the face we’ve been carving in our dreams
for the name we’re yet to speak