Still whole for another few moments, here I am. You stare blondly
from the window of my belly like a Chagall fetus, all-seeing. What I like most
about carrying you is: we are dyadic. What I like least about carrying
you is: we are dyadic. Together, we make the clearest sound. You kick
for a kiss over my belly & I do, so fierce I might suction you into my lips.
In December of 1997, I was a split seed, growing red & watermelon-
thick in my mother’s womb. Her voice twisted around me like a weed.
In girlhood, I promised myself I would let you grow. In the C-
section, I was wrested from my mother’s belly. I want you
to slide out naturally. If my mom would have felt my tiny heart, soft
as a tomato in her hands, do you think she would have squeezed
me so close? Each time she spoke, her words were teeth, rupturing
my skin & drenching me in fluid. I am pushing through the pain,
but I don’t want you to remember how much this hurts. I know I’ll be lonely
without you inside, but I promise to let you go. Will you chart this one day too—
measure me up against the rising sea levels in your mind, find me wanting?
In high school, when teachers said, more than the calf wants to
drink, the mother cow wants to nurse—we all recoiled from the naked
need. Now my breasts feel heavy with milk. Is it such a sin to want
your head near my heart, your belly fed on my fat? Do I want it for you
or for me? When you are out of my body, your eyes will plunge
into dark light. I am forgetful of most things holy, but this I know:
we will spend the rest of our lives aching for wholeness—
the two of us together & each of us alone.