One

I
am just
seventeen

Now the teachers
start to whisper and
then the girls and the boys

To me the kicking is a
comfort— or a vice.  Soon, it ends.
I cry.  My baby girl is born dead.

Two
I
am in
pain, alone

He has ripped me
to pieces and my
heart is broken, bloodied

But my bones have healed from his
caresses and there is nothing
more— I am empty.  "Take care of her."

Three
He
holds me
like I am pure

And his fingers
do not push or beg
or shout or scream or force

This time when I hear her heart
beat, I laugh and cry and now, for
the first time, I hold her and call her
ours.