A Poem with no name

She was the period at the end of the sentence,

as she referred to herself,

or the answer to my question

as I referred to her

since before her I was stuck in a rut,

looking for women in whose eyes I could see my future daughter Maya Angela George and/or future sons Daij Langston George and  Malcolm Wesley George,

or any names she would want the kids to have,

as long as they were ours.

I’ve since had to erase the period.

I wouldn’t say that God came between us.

It was religion that tore us apart.

I’ve had to erase the period,

Changing it to a comma,

waiting to complete it:

 changing it to a question mark,

looking for an answer.

I’m dating every chance I get,

but I’m not seeing  Maya or Daij or Malcolm in any of their eyes.

Dear Lord,

I’m dying a thousand times.

Please bless me.

Isn’t it about time?

I’m the only one I know who has not been divorced,

or isn’t with someone they wish  would leave home and never return.

(I guess that’s a good thing.

Right?)

                                         today she called to tell me she and her husband was having a son,

And if she could name him Malcolm Wesley Muhammad—
and I died inside again.