Cradled at the chest of the Earth –
ribs a hill to the swing of the wind,
my days are sleepers
and my dreams filled
with collapsing pectorals and the
moist lustre of something called placenta.
I know the lightest part of the night,
where I stand to exhibit my stomach
to the waiting air
and strain my abdomen
into a dim imitation of the convex moon
that is soft and heavy with nurturing.
Next morning I watch the birds that
divide my dandelion garden and snatch
from the peaches –
pluck him with overeager hands and weave
a deep womb from the cooling feathers.
In lilting hours I rest my fist inside it,
pushing my fingers to lodge the sides
and hate to know
that my red womb
won’t fit inside the flatness of my torso –
I demolish it, quickly, from the inside.
Every morning I put two fingers in my mouth
to make myself vomit onto the ground –
I cradle the empty air
where my belly should be
and examine in detail my milkless chest
and my ribs, which are aching with loss.