I open my legs
so the doctor can
see what I can’t see—

are my eggs still good? They are
scheduled to expire
on my forty-fourth birthday,

according to statistics.
I dislike statistics. They tell me about
other people’s lives, not my own.

Since my son died, I’ve been
manufacturing hope like synthetic sugar,
ignoring the bitter aftertaste.

I use the following ingredients
for my saccharine: sex for procreation,
lottery tickets (playing his birthday and death day)

and writing poems. I know the saying
Life isn’t fair, but come on,
I’m walking through life

sideways. I can’t get the voice out of my head,
You deserve something good to happen.
Sometimes it screams at me.

But maybe it’s my perception
that’s off kilter, maybe the good already happened—
my husband, the birth of our two sons,

even Riley’s short six years.
Maybe it’s not about what I have lost
but all that I have.