My own story is full of missing links, full of blanks

said Chantel Ackerman. And I do not even have a child.

In heaven, they say I will without the mediation of any creature

find some divine essence with an intuitive vision. Move forth, I tell them

I am nearing thirty and I do not even have one abortion to show for it.

To prove my potential instead I whisper incantations of hospitable

Martyrdom. Wipe my fingers on the edge of my shirt and apply different lip gloss

to different mirrors. There before me, the markers of my numbing are contained

in a single vision that my life should unfold in recognisable steps.

Yet the terrace of my future is not so bright as to reflect sunsets

Or idyll voices where the headlights turn off at night. Rather please and thank you I say

to populate some move for acceptance. Where stillness captures my breath between the waves

And I can solemnly say to you my Father that I tried, forever ago

To put my longing to good use.