My stomache tugs at
an old fetus, belly up,
a stutter in a hot month.
I think, I would paint her
like a spring egg,
or sculpt her like a chess game
where she could be queen
and cut off the eyelids of liars,
I would give her my hands to do with
all the weapons
and my tongue to speak with
all the words
she would know that she is not a pink
fluff laying on a pillow,
she is a sharp dagger,
a soft poison,
a prowess taking life by God’s
she would know
if she was not an old thought,
if she was not a small white stutter
stabbed out of the clutches
of my womb
she would know.
I have never felt you, but I saw your beady blue
transparency in the hand of a stranger.
She drained you and the mucous,
she strained you just to have you,
and I do not know you but I feel you.
And I wonder if you are the same,
or if you are even you,
and in this mood I am careful, and thick.
I dreamed about curious habits and
watermelon seeds; slick, black beginnings
buried deep in moist protein.
I woke up, choking on raw meat, trying
to swallow your well-being.
And I have not held you, but every day
I feed you,
and water you
and let you grow,
because, although I do not know you,
I want you.