​baby

I eat moonlight roots
and boiled coral pumpkins 
in preparation for childbirth.
I don't know who gave me
this warm, pink balloon.
It may not have been a man.
Too pale, and altogether beige.
A room; a bed; the walls;
temperature of 28.7 degrees.
We stain the flaccid sheets.
I don't know what a man is.
Is he to love me?
To whisper deep into my womb,
be the heavy rock in my gut,
electricity to my little heart?
I don't know that I am a woman
except for the puff in my oven 
and these painful plum nipples.
In this room, me and the man 
are a lifetime from burning stars--
hot    bright    white 
blue   electric   glow
shimmering! 
    shimmering softly.
Are we to only breathe magic
in the dark caverns of dreams?
(perhaps I slept with time)
And so I feed my baby 
with things we have forgotten, like
bark of wilting winter willow,
whiff of cirrus in july,
droplet of dead robin's blood.
My moist pocket burrito
shall traverse the galaxies
and discover things that
cannot be defined by 2013,
like a new colour,
or visible feelings,
and the old gate of dreamland.
It will come back 
when I am dead and gone,
and find in the verdant woods
the breathing moss-covered rock
where I first breastfed it
smelling the night flowers.
​


published in Wallflower Mag