I couldn’t concoct these dreams, this drift
of enchantment and trouble, this coupling.
If, at my age, I became pregnant, surely
I would be stunned. Literally, no sperm
has had access in years. Yet, the bigger jolt
was the push of my own fingers deep inside
to press the seaweed stick into my cervix,
let it swell and open the canal, let slip the fetus
down the drain, having no midwife or obstetrician,
no Lamaze coach or Duala, no one really.
But that is not the entire shock of it. There is
the matter-of-fact manner in which I deny
the putative father his say, and think nothing
of the miracle itself. Perhaps this tells you who I am,
although I barely heed this treacle, this dream
in which I want no one and no one is what I will have.