Through Glass
By Deirdre Hennings
No crashing of tempest through sea wall
No rush of blood to blood
No being, emergent in its sac
To flood me, or flood out of me
As I lay panting and refulgent in my joy
Waiting to hold that perfect tiny body,
Twine that pixie hand,
Hear the cry that upends your world.
That ocean was simply too deep to ply.
I did not dare risk the terror
—As my parents had done, unwittingly—
Of caring for a creature with all their might
That would grow, but not develop.
One brother, wide-eyed and curious,
—Full of promise, reading at three—
Did not speak until six. Overcome by
Tantrums and despondency by fifteen,
He spends much of life underwater;
The other, a bright-eyed spunk,
Crazy about wearing hats just so, morphed
Into a Hydra whose voices never stop:
Interruptive, impulsive, eventually incoherent,
As impossible to contain or corral
As spilled mercury.
These two were already in the family,
Needing care all their lives.
That was enough, no need to repeat.
But my decision was not rent-free.
When I see a child laughing,
Running after bubbles at the beach,
The graciousness of ordinary life
Floods my senses,
Gives me joy
I can feel
But not touch
As I watch
From my perch
Through glass.