Expected to Continue

In my thirties

I was scheduled to lead an overnight reset

at the chain bookstore where I managed.

Remove the books.

Relocate the fixtures.

Reshelve the books.

I was eleven weeks pregnant

when the schedule posted.

The day the shift arrived,

I began to miscarry.

I was expected to report to work.

I removed the books.

I relocated the fixtures.

I reshelved the books.

I bled.

When I was twelve,

I had the body of my twenty-year-old self.

Men called out

while I waited outside my middle school.

At a red light in downtown Kansas City

an old man parked beside us.

He stared.

Licked his lips.

Made kissing faces.

Motioned for me to roll down the window.

My mother told me to look away.

At the doctor’s

during my yearly pap smear

they ask how many pregnancies I have had.

I learned quickly

the response they are looking for is:

2 living,

1 deceased.