The Bath

Found In: Infertility

By Lynn E. Levin | Poem

Each month I find the red surprise of death,
and I fear for us.
How few we are, how much grayer,
how much fine dust we wasted as we lived for ourselves.
In the darkness I light a candle
and remember the moon's promise to women.

What then of the bath and its power?
Suppose the ritual of waiting and water and joining
under the velvet tent of night
might conjure the desired coincidence,
the union of inner bride and inner groom.
I think it would be the same miracle by which our half souls first met.

Each month I walk in the garden of the new moon,
dreaming of fullness, of our moment of union.
Thinking of unhappiness and happiness in their turns,
of freshness, hope, and many chances.