Unknown
Magazines cover the wall of the airport convenience
store. Space Needle keychains hang from displays.
I find the little pink box with yellow trim,
First Response bold across the front, then crouch,
read the smaller print: Early Result Pregnancy Test.
I pick up the box, look at the cashier. She could be
my grandma—white hair, a thick, green sweater,
wiry glasses. I set the box back on the shelf, walk
into the terminal, into smells of food—the nearby
Panchero’s and Dish D’Lish. I take a seat at my gate,
look through an issue of Vogue, pass over fall fashion
trends, linger on a picture of a sleeping baby. A pregnant
woman takes the seat across from me, leans down
to tie her shoe, struggles to reach that far. Her husband
kneels at her feet, ties the laces in a bow. She sits up,
hair stuck to sweat gathered along her hairline.
And then I think of you—our four months together--
wonder if that’s enough for you to be there to tie
my shoes, wonder if that’s enough for you to change
diapers, to be a dad. A voice on the intercom announces,
“We are now inviting passengers with small children
to begin boarding.” A copper taste settles in my mouth,
unsettles my stomach. I fan my cheeks, tuck a loose
hair behind my ear, then move my fingers across
the cotton fabric just below my bellybutton—pray
that a certain mass of cells hasn’t found home there.
store. Space Needle keychains hang from displays.
I find the little pink box with yellow trim,
First Response bold across the front, then crouch,
read the smaller print: Early Result Pregnancy Test.
I pick up the box, look at the cashier. She could be
my grandma—white hair, a thick, green sweater,
wiry glasses. I set the box back on the shelf, walk
into the terminal, into smells of food—the nearby
Panchero’s and Dish D’Lish. I take a seat at my gate,
look through an issue of Vogue, pass over fall fashion
trends, linger on a picture of a sleeping baby. A pregnant
woman takes the seat across from me, leans down
to tie her shoe, struggles to reach that far. Her husband
kneels at her feet, ties the laces in a bow. She sits up,
hair stuck to sweat gathered along her hairline.
And then I think of you—our four months together--
wonder if that’s enough for you to be there to tie
my shoes, wonder if that’s enough for you to change
diapers, to be a dad. A voice on the intercom announces,
“We are now inviting passengers with small children
to begin boarding.” A copper taste settles in my mouth,
unsettles my stomach. I fan my cheeks, tuck a loose
hair behind my ear, then move my fingers across
the cotton fabric just below my bellybutton—pray
that a certain mass of cells hasn’t found home there.
Biography
Ellen Rethwisch is a senior English-writing major at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN. In addition to Zaum, she has had poems published in Words Apart Magazine, 30N, andMangrove Literary Journal. Ellen also serves as an editor for Concordia's literary journal and writes for Odyssey, an online publication.
Ellen Rethwisch is a senior English-writing major at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN. In addition to Zaum, she has had poems published in Words Apart Magazine, 30N, andMangrove Literary Journal. Ellen also serves as an editor for Concordia's literary journal and writes for Odyssey, an online publication.