She wanted a girl. She didn’t get one.
That was a year ago now.
The end of the world is coming
and we asked it to. She said
it is impossible not to love a being you made
in your body, so she loves the child
the same. Everyone gets exactly
what they want. When the world ends, satellites
will still blink up there, and some, by design,
will take photos of it. I imagine her
in delivery, curls slicked flat to her scalp by sweat,
the tough meat her grip makes
of her hands, but I cannot envision her pain.
I am telling this from the impossible distance
a year put between me and the birth.
There are worlds everywhere. We’ve inferred that
from the way a far-off star will dim, slightly,
when one passes for a moment in front.
Because we’ll never really meet one another,
we must love every inch, even the ones
we’ll never see—the small planets
of cartilage, for instance, deep in a knuckle.
We’ll carry those into ourselves, too: our cells
will make room. She wanted a girl and her body
gave way. The end of the world is coming,
and we will be alone then, but it will be
what we want, and above, a machine
will take a shot as it bears its witness.