Heard in Quick Passing
Couple arm in arm approach.
She is at least six months along.
His eyes dreamily follow an iridescent butterfly
flying under an oppressively clear blue sky.
His woman's belly is a curved fullness.
Her face is angular and pretty.
He holds on tight to his earth mother goddess
strolling through this botanical garden in Spring,
the season for such divine beings to stir.
But she is biting a bloody lip,
and no dreamy smile is on her face.
This phalanx of two ignores my approach.
How can I pass?
But suddenly she pushes his arm aside
and does an awkward pirouette.
I pass through this broken unity.
The iridescent butterfly flies from his vision to mine
and dances directly in front of me.
Behind me I hear a whisper.
Behind me I hear soft sobs.
"Don, the baby isn't yours, isn't yours."
If you've any comments on this poem, Richard
Fein would be pleased to hear from you.