BABY BLUES

-1-

"If only I'd known," we say, as if joking. All those years of using pills, fitting diaphragms, inserting jellies and creams, the awkward rubber slips. All the worry when weeks went by with no period. All for nothing. Not one thing. Not the one thing we each of us would pray for now, if we could pray. Our breasts sag over empty wombs, our long hair is streaked by nature. We who choose the artificial, the art of reproduction, the needle and the petri dish. We who give ourselves up to faith in science, impotent and sterile. Each failed attempt adds one more small death. Even in daylight, even in the bright waiting room in the company of others, our arms curve, hands on elbows, make cradles for the lost, the wasted babies.

-2-

What it means to hear on the news of another one found in a trash bag in a garbage bin behind a service station. That someone should have to crouch in a locked cubicle, gasping, teeth gritting on her own arm, no one to hold her hand, no one to catch the baby's fall. What does she do with the afterbirth, will it plug the toilet, will it fit in the wastebasket wired to the door, will she have to carry it outside past the mirror and the sink? Her mouth is full of blood, her arm runs with blood from the bites, her legs, her shoes are full of blood, and the baby is all blood, red and quivering. She is alone, even when it starts to cry, even then she grabs handfuls of tissues and rubs and rubs at the spots on the floor, listening for the door handle to rattle, a man to ask what's wrong in there. Trucks sigh and wheeze and the steady rum rum of an engine warming is no louder than her own heart, the pulse of the baby turning blue on scarred tiles. Did she have any pleasure in its conception, some few minutes of kindness, love to compensate for this? What could compensate for this. Perhaps she dresses her daughter first in white wool, then wraps her carefully in plastic. The way she learned to pack her dolls, laying them tenderly in a suitcase pushed under the bed. How we learn ourselves to put away childish things.

-3-

And some of us go a little crazy, longing. The ones who dress small white dogs in plaid jackets, bows in their hair. The ones who nurse bottles, who nap all the long afternoon. The ones who are always telling stories. We look at infants in supermarkets, contemplate the stroller deserted for just five minutes by a mother who doesn't care, who is too busy, who would never notice. Who might be relieved. We carry our nieces and nephews awkwardly. When they cry, we give them up quickly, afraid of holding on too long, too tightly. Our breasts always ache.

There is a woman in our town we laugh about, though we fear her and when we see her coming, we will cross the street, stare in shop windows at chocolates and stationery. She has a big belly, walks flat footed, pushes a carriage. And if a stranger stoops to coo at her baby, she will shout when she starts back, if she reads on that face distaste for the dolly dressed for the weather in sun bonnet or snow suit. We say she is really crazy, we say she is retarded, we mime pity and pleased offense. She cuddles it on the park bench while we walk by, empty-handed. Our fists curl, as if around the pink pram handles.

-4-

This is not to say that we are preoccupied by our bodies, in spite of constant betrayal. Whole days go by without thought, that nagging desire. We are so busy, we can talk only about politics and earthquakes, such commonplace disasters. We can notice the weather now, the season changing, leaves falling yellow in a high wind, birds flocking. What turns the tide? You might say it's the ache in our thighs, the need to justify lust, the current phase of the moon. Whatever, we begin to count those days, we sleep with one hand on our wombs, we practice names.

-5-

This is the comfort of the childless: to lie late in bed on winter mornings, the wide room full of grey light, the duvet a nest for naked bodies that curl, that turn into each other. This is for breakfast before the fire, good coffee, croissants, cognac-flavored jam, the newspaper in sections on the floor. This is also possible, long walks in the afternoon along the river, black water grumbling to itself, tree shadows pointing out the clarity of snow. Quiet occurs, pages whisper as they turn, ice cubes settle in the glass. And the nights, the nights, let me tell you about the nights, when our eyes are open and our mouths filled, knees bent and spread wide, hands gripping hands in fists of effort. The pelvis thrusts for the push, we can't help it, we grunt out loud, we cry out for jesus, we want it to stop and last forever, we breathe heavily and in unison, we mourn when the cock slips out, so small now, leaving us emptied, our nipples hard, his lips so tender on this breast.

by Betsy Struthers
Peterborough Ontario