Michael H. Brownstein
I will never get pregnant, she said,
And you knew she was lying
Even after she etched an intricate design
Permanent as bone to her skin.
And she did get pregnant
Just as you knew she would.
The sweat of summer settling into her,
Her belly reconfiguring itself,
And all of the artwork pulling itself apart
As if it were eczema in need
Of a picking, blister and scab,
A plastic bag trapped in the tree,
Inhaling and exhaling, just out of reach.