AGAINST ALL ODDS

The yoga instructor finally intones, "Embryo
position," and we gratefully relax our stretched
muscles, bowing low over bent knees
and turning our heads on to tired temples.

That's when I think of you two floating
quietly like pale little lotus blossoms,
dreaming away your acquatic hours
tethered by love to your mom's heartstrings,
and I think of the willing sacrifice she's made
to bring you this far, her swollen body
with belly stretched blue-veined thin and
daily growing heavier, her stuggle to keep
you safe becoming harder and harder
as she counts each day a victory--a precious
accrual of time against the appointed hour.

"Not viable" had been the invitro expert's
discouraging description, but your mom
saw two promises of perfect possibility
brimming in the shallow petri dish
and chose to give you a chance, though slim,
and now eight months later, your strong heartbeats
and the genesis of future generations
loudly resounds across the sterile room,
a Morse code of reassurance emanating
ftom a galaxy called hope, filling us
with the weightless rise of relieved joy
and lighting up the worried night.