He doesn't tell me

He doesn’t tell me 

disappears into the bathroom
stays ten minutes
no toilet sound flushing
comes out with a small brown
paper bag—rolled tight at the top 
opens the front door   
hands it to a woman
I've never seen before

magma spews
up my body   marrow-hot
bone-lit    catapults
me out of the house
to spill, wail, rant
trust splattered

I, who can freight
no more children
my then-husband donates
to another woman
who will raise his child
the child I hunger to bear