Kristin Eade

WANTING KIDS

In the house of my body
a whole room is unlit.
No light switch, no electrical,
not even a window
for letting the moon’s soft blush
trespass. Sometimes I go in
to see if anything’s there.
Only dust-sugared cobwebs
brushing my blind hands. Only
a chill as I move
into blackness.
Only my breath
in vacuum-sealed silence.
Don’t these things come with cribs,
I think. My foot doesn’t kick a thing.

I imagine lighting the room
with “I have baby fever”—
a wood stove’s glutted glow.
“I want four”—the romp of a flame
atop a fresh candle.
“My clock is ticking”—
a pyre.

As I try out each light source,
imagining the neatly painted walls
and glossy hard wood floors
and stately crown molding that’s
probably there, I realize:
these are the lit rooms
of other women.
“Why not?” is a question
people try to light my room with, incomprehension
the flashlight’s beam.
But you can get used to darkness
the same way you get used to light.

back to contents


next