I Promessi Sposi
I carry our unborn child
into the mustard yellow car you drive.
To the smell of mothballs on your jacket.
I carry our child to your words:
“Is two hundred dollars enough for an abortion?”
I carry my child to work at Bell Telephone:
from eight o’clock until five,
I wear two girdles to hide my stomach.
The company nurse says: “Why don’t you
give up your baby for adoption?”
I carry my child to the bridal shower.
My co-workers toast the bride.
Dinner and corsage at the Maritime Plaza Hotel:
crystal milk-and-sugar set wedding gift.
Don’t tell them I carry a child.
I carry my child to Sposabella.
Buy a silk taffeta wedding dress.
Lilies of the valley bridal bouquet.
Veil and short cotton gloves.
Carry the cardboard box home.
I carry my child to the hairdresser,
the night before our nuptials.
“Mio fratello,” your sister Concetta says.
“My brother left town.”
“Puttana Ungherese!” she adds. “Hungarian whore!”
I carry our child from my parents’‚ house.
Don’t tell them: “I am getting married.”
I carry my child to the night wedding.
The priest doesn't say:
“You may now kiss the bride.”
New Book by Longbridge
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