When I joked we’ll name him Lazarus
I meant perhaps he was a miracle,
how he stopped growing
and started again,
confounding all the doctors
who called to say, come in, come in,
and when at the preschool gathering
I wore that elastic-waist skirt,
that was because I’d put on five pounds
and some water with all the hormones,
and good, how are you I breathed
because I was raised to believe
women should be optimists.
And after he took his leave
in a small sea of blood
and I returned to the tall mast
of myself I said not well, not at all well
because two glasses of wine always catalyze
honesty and we were desperate for him,
our miracle, our Lazarus,
our lucky ticket, our magnum opus,
but I see now he would have been quite ordinary,
and we might even have called him Lazarus.
