I become pregnant again.

    Even as I dream it, I know it’s a lie.

I don’t care. Let my sadness dissolve into symbols.

    Let my body turn into glass,

a new type of greenhouse. Inside,

    let the baby be round as a cabbage,

protected from cold by a halo of light.

    Let the ghost of my grandma remember me.

Let her tell my baby her stories,

    let me hear the cascade of her laugh.

“First pregnancy?” the dream nurse will ask.

    “First...baby,” I’ll correct her.

And I’ll let the words make it real.

    That’s all I have, this mortal magic—

like a rooster who thinks the sun won’t rise

    if he doesn’t yell at it himself.

Except I know the truth now, don’t I?

    Because I’ve learned grief is a circle.

And this dream is a circle,

    looping back to the start.

Growing the baby. Losing the baby.

    Trying again. Years of this.

Better to shape myself into pre-grief, expecting

    my love to die on my tongue.

Not giving it a name, not wanting

    another word to disappear from my language.