"Two pink lines" by Ian Hearnden

As the late march browns hatched,
he forgave her her follies
and she his low numbers.
The three-year stream of eager blanks
(good for Scrabble, bad for life)
led them to spit
in the face of the kidney damage and the clots.

So they shelled out the pounds
and she worked off the weight.
Still reached in the fridge,
but not for the Riesling,
and the duty free fags
stayed sealed in the bags
from JFK
as they waited for collection day.
And a two-week wait in vain.

When the last Martin chick fledged,
she set off on her second cycle,
through scenery she already knew too well,
marked by beatless culs de sac
and filling stations flush with grapefruit juice.
She and he spent a tupperware picnic summer
smiling as the "You'll Be Fine" school of thought
offered them crumbs,
and waited again,
again in vain.

At the bran-flake crackle of October bracken,
she ticked to thirty-nine.
While the bookies cashed their cheques,
she scoured the chat sites;
sought out a cycle buddy;
sharpened the friendly needles;
snapped up the agnus castus.
Still everywhere they listened were the cloth-eared and the blessed,
wrapped up in their families,
chieftain tanking conversation over their hearts.
And again the endgame brought pain and no gain.

Days shortened, then lengthened.
Foxes squawked at 5am,
but he and she were not awoken,
for they were not asleep -
though still they dared to dream. They
placed faith in powers they didn't believe in;
prayed for survival through sickness and headspin;
drained through delays and drugs and downregging;
pinned frayed hopes on a freezing February day...
Until she filled with nibbles and nausea.
Until the arrival of the big fat positive.

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