Why this?

The occasional piece of my own and a generous helping of others' creations I find inspiring. Site is named for a beloved book by one of my favorite writers, Italo Calvino, whose fanciful work lights--and delights--my soul.

Monday, April 9, 2012

More Than Me

There’s no other life inside you
after a miscarriage, technically.
The body is slow to register,
though, and mine holds on
to events I’ve come to associate
with bringing forth:
aversion to the singe of vinegar,
the tough of economy chuck;
noontime stomach flutters;
sleep so thick as to defy
dreams almost completely.
This doesn’t throw me.

What does: your right hand
over my uterus that night
we laid, hands clasping,
in the nursery, after everything.
How my whole circuitry,
beneath your touch, teemed
with the force of 6 million crickets.

Yesterday, working from home,
I wrote you from the rocking chair:
“I wonder what things look like
inside me right now.”
I sat there, my own hands
pressing the good, soft skin
of my belly, my blood coursing
hard, vigorous as love.
Coursing through disassembly,
coursing toward ready.


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