Nine Months
She wakes inside a day, taped
inside a week, boxed inside
a month tied with garland
from last year’s baby shower.
I forgot the name for Thursday.
She thinks that was her thought
when she woke to soft sunlight
saying autumn and sundial shadows
from the blue spruce saying
he’ll be home from the office
soon, with cue cards starched
inside his cuffs. How was your day
is what he’ll ask instead of how much
longer can you grieve?
She thinks she remembers the name
of the actress she wants to play her when
the story of her life comes out. There will be
cue cards that say It’s September.
Oh, it’s Thursday, so take the garbage out.
[Author's Note: One line of this poem (“I forgot the name for Thursday”) was suggested in part by the subject of an email exchange with a friend, Mary Brick.]
Sherry O’Keefe, mother of Will and Beth, credits her Irish Montana
Pioneer heritage for much of her poetry. While her short story work has made
the top list in Glimmer Train, her poetry débuts here and in Hobble
Creek Review. She may be reached at redmittengirl at yahoo dot com, wherein
her Australian Cattle pup destroys rejection letters.