The Great Pause

By Elva Maxine Beach

unveiled the subconscious of a nation, and of my husband, who is now becoming my becoming wife, whose new wig arrived in the mail today along with the weekly pill organizer she needs to keep track of the hormones she takes to transform herself, while I sit back and witness my spouse’s delight in her new life; I am depleted of the natural hormones that once kept my skin tight and young, my own life a post-menopausal prisoner of The Great Pause.

Elva Maxine Beach spends her days teaching writing, her evenings watching stars and Star Trek with her lovely wasband-wife, her dreams flying with hawks over skyscrapers and oceans, and sometimes she makes time to write and occasionally publish her short stories, poems, and essays.

Mosaic by Mort Hill.

Pinsky

By Robbie Gamble

I was waiting for a train in Penn Station, maintaining my little island of space within the flow of humans on the move, and I looked up from my book to see, right in front of me, the unmistakable profile of Robert Pinsky, staring up at the trackboard, trying to locate his train, and for a brief moment I had this urge to introduce myself, which flared and snapped shut like a Zippo lighter; I mean, what was I going to say?— “Gee, Mr. Pinsky, I’m not just a fellow traveler, I’m actually an emerging poet, and I love your work; in fact, I was thinking about the strings of inventory in “Shirt” just the other night, such an awesome poem!” – and he would have to shake himself free from the anxiety of missing his connection, tuck away his formidable mental to-do list, mumble some gracious pleasantries, maybe ask a question or two about my own influences and trajectory, all while keeping an ear out for the overhead PA track announcement, as commuters shouldered by us all around; all that work I did for him in my head before returning to my book, staring down at some random phrase until I sensed he had moved on into the cavernous bustling, just another guy trying to get to somewhere else.

Robbie Gamble writes poems and essays, bakes bread, and tries to be kind.

Art by Nick Botka.

Embryo, Transferred

By Violet Kieu

When I transfer your embryo, I will ask you for your three points of ID – your full name, date of birth and address, please, I will disregard how made up or disheveled you are – your hair, lipstick, pubic hair (or lack thereof), remnants of progesterone pessary in your vagina, mucus at your cervix; but I will remember your socks, the lucky socks: the orange fish, the red cats, the icy poles with a bite taken out of the corner, the lack of socks, non-descript socks: white sport socks, black work socks, beige footlet socks that hide under the shoe line but don't quite blend into the skin, the toes rings, anklets, the tattoos...

(‘Can I keep my socks on?’

‘Yes – Don’t want you having cold feet,’)

I will tell you how your IVF cycle went, how many eggs were collected, how many fertilized, how many survived to the embryo stage, what the classification of today’s embryo is, critiqued like a diamond AA grade I will tell you if we have been able to freeze any embryos, or if we are culturing any, I will talk to you of chance; you are here with courage –

I will talk to you about your socks if you are nervous and/or if they spark my interest, a lateral way of breaking the ice to humanize the seriousness, the important-ness, of today small, perhaps, but what you and I can talk about calmly in this hyper-aware state; once a woman forgot her birthdate when I asked, and cried angry tears at herself – the stress frays you – I want to disarm you, but I have a quiet anxiety too: I don’t want to drop your damn fine embryo.

Violet Kieu is a fertility doctor and writer from Melbourne, Australia, who writes memoir about medicine and motherhood.

Photo by Violet Kieu. Art by Jess Anderson.