Leveler Poetry Journal
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Week 36 (Figure)

 

Dislocations and recovery, aftershocks—

you are not aware of your shoulders when you are in labor,

so I left the shoulders out.

 

The face tries to float free, but the arms

sling the chin to catch it. She is red-handed.

There are pansies, staunching bandages,

 

sheets that crumple into a relief map.

Most of the light seems to leak out

as the breasts become engorged,

 

areolas like blackened pancakes.

No bellwether of metamorphosis, only slack surprise

that the eyes reveal the effort while the mouth

 

smears featureless, that the womb

could go from globe to grapefruit in a matter of hours,

that the baby would be gone so long.




B.K. Fischer