I won’t burst into the living room
with a celebratory scream.
I won’t cry tears of joy
or any tears at all.

When I emerge 
from the cramped half bath
with flushed cheeks and a white stick 
marked by two pink lines, he’ll shrug,

I won’t believe it
until you get past twelve weeks,

and I will deflate
like a popped balloon.

But first, swaddled
for a moment by this tiled sanctuary,
I hold the evidence
in reverent hands.

My whisper escapes,
a premonition or a prayer.

Here we are, kid.
It’s just you and me.