It turns out the worst part of surgery
is waiting for it to begin.

The anesthesiologist listens to me
explain that I’m afraid of anesthesia

then explains that anesthesia
is nothing to be afraid of.

Oh, okay. Problem solved.

Then the hospital chaplain comes in
to pray over my repeat offender womb

& says kind things about my dead fetus
being in heaven with my other dead fetus

& even though I haven’t been to church
at any point during this century,

I completely lose my shit.

You take my hand—stained with blood
where the nurse failed to stab in my IV—

& tell me even my bleeding is cute
which is both completely ridiculous

& the other thing that makes me sob
like my world is ending, which it is.

I remember the week we found out I was pregnant

you bought dozens of solar lights
& stashed them all over the yard

& we sat outside on the deck
at the mercy of every mosquito in Memphis

watching the sky fade from pink to blue.
I held your hand then too, waiting

for all the little lights to blink on in the dark.

(winner of the Editor’s Prize in Poetry for issue 41)