The Diaphragm

I tried them on, like bras or shoes
at Gimbels Department store.
You need a snug fit, the Planned Parenthood
nurse announced, so it would seal
that door, that crimson portal into
the unthinkable.

When the time came, I locked myself in
his tiny powder room under the stairs,
(his parents reliably asleep above us).
Under the frosted light above the sink,
I trimmed it with a pearlescent gel like a rim
of submerged stars. On the third or fourth try,
it slipped in.
I prayed for it to stay.

Like a woman wearing invisible galoshes
to keep the storm
from seeping in,
I appeared before him where he waited
grinning, on the knubbly wool couch;
he didn't ask for details, both of us
believed we were ready.