well

By Shannon Nakai

​                 

for months I clung to myself

to the arc I called my son. We

 

I would say, are going to

bed. on my side I caught his kicks

 

in my hands and wished for dark

hair, trusting eyes, the violin

 

scroll of my nose. my husband and I tested

first names for character, each one a wish

 

for blessings—love, wisdom, strength—

against our last names lashed

 

together, mine meaning the center

of a well. I wished for a swift birth.

 

in the delivery room I lifted

my hand to the faint shadow on

 

the screen, a weight of promise I carried

in the center of my body. I was told his heart

 

stopped beating but I heard

the small sound like

 

an echo, a dropped penny

pluming into water. a final wish

 

I had not the strength left to make.