Before the Serzone. Before the Prozac.
Before the disability forms.
The winter passed in counseling,
with Deborah who asked about tomorrow,
Anne who asked about yesterday.
Before my brave return to the competent
world of matching suit and shoes,
finding myself,
No.
. . . losing myself
in furniture stores and open-houses.

The long summer in pajamas.

Before the cancerous phone-call from my cervix.
Before he bought a kitten for me to love,
and I named it Wolfgang
for one who died too young.
Before the heating-pad I couldn't give up,
clutching it to my belly
because spring wasn't warm, enough.

Before returning the borrowed car
quietly to Donna, who understood,
I walked up the bumpy-plastered stairwell
before me -- a shadowy tangerine tunnel --
to lie beneath a wooden angel, eyes fixed,
where my womb was emptied,
asking for silence,
and silently, forgiveness.