we named our son.
Flushed, I felt his imaginary kick
like a promise.
You took his tiny, ghostly hand,
patrolling Kowloon Park. My boys.
We tried but I could feel myself
growing colder. He is a foetus in a jar now,
an implausibility. We will not marry
on Cotton Tree Drive. I will not swell
with your child.
It is Tomorrow
and I know I am hard to love.