God is working in ways he doesn't explain,
my father explains in answer to nothing.
Silence surrounds the room where his wife,
my mother, was crying. I've never seen

her crying, and I am seven years old.
She cries, God works. I ask my father, Why?
My father is slow to narrate the lie,
a lie I uncover years later—not cold,

but loving deceit. He hesitates, leans
towards me, says, The baby must wait. I
nod, wait for next year. Years later, when something
clicks—my new brother did not miss his train

from God, will never come—I freeze in reflection—
them, leaving for the doctor; red on the bathroom floor.