Waiting for Eden

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WAITING FOR EDEN


        — for Eden, who took her time getting here


And still the weight grows

as we wait, limping past

the due date while we lament 

the undefined distance

dividing here from healing,  

trudging about like expectant

mothers dreaming of release. 


And still the ache remains

faceless if inarguably there,

alive, and impossible to ignore,

and if this is love we’re laboring

towards then dare we admit our growing

occasions of envy towards 

those who carry a little less?


What evidence more 

that we are famished 

for a nail driven into our flesh

deep enough to take away the pain, 

a final push, a name, 

and then the long road

back to our old selves again?


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