The old beige carpet roughed up my cheek as I lay fully proned in that room in which we had conceived our love

My neck stung from where his fingers had been, the floor seemed to vibrate from the blood fizzling in my veins

This was a first; a monument to his irreparable and tarry soul, that blow to the vessel that now carries his child

I flattened myself further onto the floor, there is no lower feeling than this i thought and yet could not fully bear

And then, the first flutter of life within my womb, like a butterfy’s first tremors breaking through the hardened shell of the chrysalis

My son, I felt him inside me between my bruised spine and this hard ground supporting my desperate confused shell

He is there, growing, knocking on the chrysalis wall, reminding me we will transform together into something bigger than both of us could alone

And the owner of the fingers that left the painful imprint on my neck, those crude red marks, will not be his father

no, only by donorship for we will flee to the ranch and climb trees and I will be mother and he will be an old soul

teaching me about love and grace, making it all worth it

And we will watch the oranges and reds shimmer through the oak trees while the sheep bleat and the horses whinny

And we will know what is born after the sun goes down.