in the heat of the garden
my gut chirps up towards me to say 
“surely this must be the worst of it”
i pull another weed with sore ripe fingers 
and whisper back 
“even if it isn’t, we’ll be fine” 

i repeat myself so often,
i’m not sure if it’s become mantra or delusion.

i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick
don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t picture it 
we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine