The entrance is marked

by a circular desk, navy blue uniform.

We don’t have to ask – our purpose

is evident in the swell of my belly.


It’s a descent lined by sterile hallways,

a ballet-type bar lining one wall

for the dance of contractions.

I grip it and lean, a kind of plie.

A woman 2 doors down mirrors me.


When we leave, climb out

of this canyon I will cry.

My feet will come to that circular desk threshold

and the chasm of our experience will etch

through me.


At that moment I will realize

that the girl who made this ascent

is so far from the one who started it all.

The disconnect will be dizzying.


How many selves do I have in me?


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