Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Zachary Schomburg—Issue 64, April 2017)

Brandi Katherine Herrera
Other Mothers

image of Other Mothers

Upstairs from the ice skating rink and the food court and the Nordstroms, strange
women were opening their legs to the future.

We waited next to the fertility pamphlets while our mother was being poked and

She called it her “women’s doctor” and we went because we knew we’d be rewarded for
our pains.

We brought coloring books.

We felt close to our insides.

                At birth a baby girl only has about a fifth of the eggs she had at twenty weeks.

                At puberty she will have less than half of the eggs she had at birth.

It was the seventies and her doctor was a man.

We didn’t speak of the painting inside the waiting room.

What do you girls want?

We wanted the Orange Julius.

The drink with the devil on the cup and a frothy head.

You were both the same size when you were born — did you know that?

We sat in two orange chairs.

We watched the ice skaters make figure eights.

It was the seventies and raw egg whites weren’t a hazardous substance.

We were both low weight, only a few ounces different.

(Blame it on the Marlboros).

We swiveled in silence until our drinks arrived.

On the way back home we drank to the future, lit cigarettes.

We couldn’t quite put a finger on the past.