The Spot

 By Erin Rhees


The Spot

Growing inside me,
a cluster of cells swirling like minnows.
Just a day late, but I'm never late.

I crack an egg
in our pan and two orange embryos burble
together.
A sign. Twins.

All day I feel full, smugly gibbous.
Ten years was all it took.
Then the phrase geriatric pregnancy
churns in my head and
I bubble with fear.

But how pleased your father would be.
How you shimmered into being,
and I decide you are just one,
that thought smooth as communion.

But then, there it is. That red spot
blooming in my garment.

I scrub until the water runs pink
and think

what a relief. I'd be a terrible mother

what with my need for solitude, sweet as butter.
For gray mornings,
turning over for more sleep,
slipping quietly into my own oblivion.

And what if my love is so paltry
so weak, that it pops you like a joint out of place.

Better to wring you out, like water down the drain.

You, curly-haired,
your cry lilting from the next room,
your chorus of vowels rising,
your mouth wide as a cathedral.


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