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
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?