"About the nurse in OB-GYN," by Monica Berlin
About the nurse in OB-GYN
by Monica Berlin
The lobby is packed with expecting
women, fidgeting
husbands who pull toddlers
up onto their laps, while I wait, empty.
When my name is called, she walks
me down the long corridor framed
with pictures of babies'
birthdays, diagrams of each
trimester's developing, weary photographed
mothers, scrawled notes of thanks
pinned to the walls.
Later, this same woman pumps my arm,
fingers my wrist, asks how old
I am now, as if the question itself will edge
forward the hands of my body's need.
I swear she mumbles old enough, leaning
all of herself toward me-her child-bearing
hips, her healthy stoic frame,
her earrings that scrape along
her clavicle-across the desk to where
I perch. Before I can answer
she wonders aloud whether I'm going
to fill that prescription again. She doesn't
know I rehearsed this part
with my dose of morning coffee.
Even thought to pour a shot of whiskey
deep in the cup. Some proof of my resolve.
She doesn't know something keeps
collapsing. Hasn't she ever
had nightmares of children
she's never conceived: hands
scrubbed to bone, reaching
through an incubator's latex
mouth, past feeding tubes
and pulsing monitors to touch
the one-inch feet, the neonatal
glow? She turns her back
while I slip into the paper gown,
while I guide my feet
into the stirrups, tells me
about those women who leave
mugs on the roofs of their cars
and drive away. Never notice.
Would leave a baby seat too, she says,
facing me with the accusation-
the thousand mistakes I've never made.
by Monica Berlin
The lobby is packed with expecting
women, fidgeting
husbands who pull toddlers
up onto their laps, while I wait, empty.
When my name is called, she walks
me down the long corridor framed
with pictures of babies'
birthdays, diagrams of each
trimester's developing, weary photographed
mothers, scrawled notes of thanks
pinned to the walls.
Later, this same woman pumps my arm,
fingers my wrist, asks how old
I am now, as if the question itself will edge
forward the hands of my body's need.
I swear she mumbles old enough, leaning
all of herself toward me-her child-bearing
hips, her healthy stoic frame,
her earrings that scrape along
her clavicle-across the desk to where
I perch. Before I can answer
she wonders aloud whether I'm going
to fill that prescription again. She doesn't
know I rehearsed this part
with my dose of morning coffee.
Even thought to pour a shot of whiskey
deep in the cup. Some proof of my resolve.
She doesn't know something keeps
collapsing. Hasn't she ever
had nightmares of children
she's never conceived: hands
scrubbed to bone, reaching
through an incubator's latex
mouth, past feeding tubes
and pulsing monitors to touch
the one-inch feet, the neonatal
glow? She turns her back
while I slip into the paper gown,
while I guide my feet
into the stirrups, tells me
about those women who leave
mugs on the roofs of their cars
and drive away. Never notice.
Would leave a baby seat too, she says,
facing me with the accusation-
the thousand mistakes I've never made.