The Bath  Found In: Infertility  By Lynn E. Levin | Poem  Each
month I find the red surprise of death, and I fear for us. How
few we are, how much grayer, how much fine dust we wasted as we
lived for ourselves. In the darkness I light a candle and
remember the moon's promise to women.  What then of the bath and
its power? Suppose the ritual of waiting and water and joining
under the velvet tent of night might conjure the desired
coincidence, the union of inner bride and inner groom. I think
it would be the same miracle by which our half souls first met.
Each month I walk in the garden of the new moon, dreaming of
fullness, of our moment of union. Thinking of unhappiness and
happiness in their turns, of freshness, hope, and many chances.