Miss Conception

Reserve the single judgment
that was tethered to your bed,
lay it down with no remorse
no caution in your tread.

For she walks toward you nightly
raving of her endless trust,
while the clock ticking without end
watches and gathers dust.

Sit still and listen to the sound
that punctuates the night,
a laugh for your judgment's final turn
and of her last delight.

Now in the bed you made for her
the sheets forgive your haste,
of hands so timid upon her breast
the clock had thought misplaced.


The cry, the judgment at last released
into her waiting womb,
now the secret tethered to the bed
will follow you to her tomb.