Anne Menasche

Pregnancy Scare

The moon is hollow as my body and everything
is fine. I press the shell of his shoulder to my ear

and listen. God, still the earth and let me hear the blue
tide of the television; the detective has just shut

the car door and stands on a dark street in Cambridge
and is about to knock, I can feel it. His breathing steadies

me. I want to know who did it. I want to know
what was done: In sleep I missed the beginning,

just as in sleep I missed the end of another mystery.
We knocked through the room from a long journey

and fell upon the rusted bed, drinking the smell
of Lubec, Maine, the most eastern point

of our good earth. As we drove north the world
undressed for us. Maples shook off their red wigs. Pines

got down on bended knee or, naked entirely,
lay on top of one another, shoulder to shoulder,

hip to hip and now, the field green and untrimmed
shrugs off her robe of fog. She waits with us

for morning. The door opens and the detective steps
inside, past a mist-green phone. I can taste the sea

on the back of his neck. He is the salt of my earth.
When light cradles us he will turn over and kiss

my elbow. The detective climbs the stairs. I have never wanted
to know anything so badly

as what will happen next. My sisters and I
were all accidents; our parents wanted sons to march

our last name down the aisle. Instead they got three
wombs. He stirs and I imagine that he has said

my name, asked me for a glass of water, but
it’s the detective, calling for another Anne,

delivering different news.