You waited years for your Isaac to swell
in your stomach, to suckle at your breast
even though everyone said you were too old
for babies. But you waited, faithful,
for yours, Sarah, laughing when people shook
their heads at your talk of grandchildren.
And then the doctors told you of a child
in your womb. Unsurprised, you wept,
pressed your hand against your belly
to see if the baby moved. It did not,
but they assured you he was alive.
In the morning, your sheets were sticky
with more blood than any other month;
it smeared your pale skin like war paint.
There was no gray body of a stillborn
to hold, Sarah; he didn't live until the altar.