We work to create a portal, this night with morning on our heels;
a small door between us, we shimmy and pry open to invite a small stranger.
A question mark in my belly; a tightness of new living cells,
or indigestion? I throw down a cord, a life line, hoping for a bite.
Do you want to write this story?
A pen spins on the floor, points at my pelvis.
Grandmother spoke to me in a dream:
sex before marriage is best.
I have never cared for basic math; loss and gain.
This small plus sign could mean everything.
This growing, joyous ache; I feed from within,
count the emergent weeks and always in awe of you.
I gave life to a plant in the second grade, starting
with a small comma-shaped bean, learning all the parts.
Now I water my own, see every line in your paper-thin skin.
My breasts throb with this knowing, this sweet tree sap forming for you.
Evening never comes quickly, morning always arrives too soon.
I pause, expanding, waiting for stars to form.
I stretch myself into a bow, ready to shoot; my backsidepraying to something.