Love in a Box

When we were eighteen
we had an abortion.

A few years back
she contacted me using
her friend’s phone.

She wanted to set up
a time to have
a private conversation,
said he monitored her
email and phone calls.

I offered to make copies
of our love letters and
send them to her.

She said,

No, he might find them.
It’s not a good idea for me 

to dwell in the past.

Yesterday I found her
on Facebook. There was a
picture of the two of them
dining in an outdoor café
in some faraway city
captioned: I met my
true love in 1976.

When we were eighteen
our precious child lived
for eight weeks
in a liquid-filled box
with pink walls
and no windows

and all I know about her today
is what she eats.