Gap

The pulsing in my left eye
didn’t match the beat
in my wrist, at my throat,
on the backs of my knees.
A disobedient echo
that wouldn’t thrum in time.

In the bathroom mirror, I saw you
through the pupil of my eye.
It was your heartbeat—
snare drum of the next generation—
throbbing on my lens,
announcing your life.

Your eyes were low—
grief filmed my chest.
Would I birth you sad,
or would life bend you sad
before your eighteenth year?

Then I realised.

Your eyes were not downcast.
They were merely turned
to my own heart
while you tuned to its rhythm,
trying to understand
the disparity with your own.