Tests

Im dreading our appointment at the perintologist. I do not want to know why you died. I do not want to sit across the desk from Spencer, the gentosist pedldling his gentetic screening goods like a used car salesman, his twitchy eyes hopeful to move some make and model from his lot of tests. I want to refuse his needles to probe my blood for other imperfections. I want to put my fingers in my ears and hum so I can not hear them talk about the next baby, because all I want right now is you, growing inside of me, listening to the shouts I throw at your brothees to stop wrestling, stop screaming, stop being noisy boys.