Shelby Lynn Lanaro
To the Woman
I.
To the woman in the stall
next to me: I’ve been you.
Being broken-hearted
in a public bathroom
is like a rite of passage.
Somehow, we find solace
in our little sanctuaries,
foster silent relationships
with strangers
through our stifled sobs.
Know that I want to
ask you if you’re doing
all right. But I don’t
want to pry. Please
take this toilet paper tissue
as a token – a peace
offering – and realize
that I have been there too.
II.
To the woman in the stall
next to me: I know you
think you’ve been me.
I know you think I’m broken-
hearted. And I am. But not
how you’ve been. I’ve been
sitting still in this stall
for an hour now, and when
I move, the automated
valve will flush out
my miscarriage.
My phone says the pain
should subside quickly
if it’s complete, but pain
is relative and so is time.
And in time, I know
I’ll have to leave
this sanctuary,
say my goodbyes.
I reach for your hand,
take the makeshift tissue
you’ve offered me.
Please know I can’t
bring myself to choke out
a thank you,
but thank you just the same.
To the Woman
I.
To the woman in the stall
next to me: I’ve been you.
Being broken-hearted
in a public bathroom
is like a rite of passage.
Somehow, we find solace
in our little sanctuaries,
foster silent relationships
with strangers
through our stifled sobs.
Know that I want to
ask you if you’re doing
all right. But I don’t
want to pry. Please
take this toilet paper tissue
as a token – a peace
offering – and realize
that I have been there too.
II.
To the woman in the stall
next to me: I know you
think you’ve been me.
I know you think I’m broken-
hearted. And I am. But not
how you’ve been. I’ve been
sitting still in this stall
for an hour now, and when
I move, the automated
valve will flush out
my miscarriage.
My phone says the pain
should subside quickly
if it’s complete, but pain
is relative and so is time.
And in time, I know
I’ll have to leave
this sanctuary,
say my goodbyes.
I reach for your hand,
take the makeshift tissue
you’ve offered me.
Please know I can’t
bring myself to choke out
a thank you,
but thank you just the same.
Shelby Lynn Lanaro is a poet and professor. She received her MFA in 2017 from Southern Connecticut State University, where she now teaches Freshman English. A New England native, Shelby loves encapsulating nature's splendor in her words and through photography. Shelby's poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Dying Dahlia Review, The Feminist Wire, Poetry Breakfast, and a poetry anthology titled Sea Glass Hearts through Stormy Island Publishing.