Intervention
by Kathryn Koromilas

In the photograph, they lie on stomachs,
feet hitched over the bed-head, faces held

for the two-tone camera. They are younger
than what I am now and there's no sign

of what will change them; no lines around their eyes
and mouths, where their big moments will imprint.

No sign of how I'll make them age, how I'll slip
between their coupling, in their double bed;

the extra presence, reminder that the wings
will be stored, folded and packed out in

the garage, and feet will have to be planted
firm in work boots, homework and second

bedrooms. How thoughts will begin with them
but end with me. They tried to get pregnant

after the photographer left the room. I was there
hovering -- in the way I did then -- and willed

the tiny possibility of me to shoot forward.
I'd heard the old wives tales thousands of times,

if I could make her fall in love with him
she'd be a better receptacle for me. I tickled

her neck and whispered her favourite narratives
borrowed from the songs and movies

she coveted. And because I made her believe
this was meant, it happened. Later, she'd say,

I arrived just the way she'd planned and that
her prayers were answered.