My heart spills down
diary days. Time trembles,
Doubt scatters like confetti.
Coded scrawls circle dates.
Tests are thrown in bins.
I spend abacus days
phoning, texting, mailing,
counting. Then
‘Mum, Dad…
I’m pregnant’.
But no record of silent
tears in pink bathrooms,
abacus weeks spent counting,
roses and blue tests thrown in bins,
tingling breast tricking hope.
No symbols for those.