Six months later, when your period returned
to an empty house, curtains drawn,
I bought an ovulation test;

you were worried you’d see someone we know
and they would know

—what?
You didn’t know.

That first morning the light
under the bathroom door
was like a seam between us, fastening

the news of your test
to what I hoped would follow
—until you opened the door.

This isn’t just about sex, you said
days later, turned away

by another empty circle.
But we’d spent the week
we’d been waiting for

in line, waiting. Or that’s what it
felt like each morning, our turn
at least another day away,

and with so many others
in front of us, some going through
a second time.