Her belly is round
and kicking.
It shows when she walks,
tight lipped determination
as tight as the knots she kneads
in the small of her back.
When she kisses
the toilet every morning
she empties her secrets
and flushes them away.
But they never go away.
They refill each night while she dreams
the fire of birth.
And she wishes she could hold
her belly forever and become
a goddess.
Her sticky skin
burns in the bed sheets
with a hope.
A hope for her unborn child
yearning to enter a world
not ready for him.
Her toes curl with the effort of holding,
but soon she’ll slip.
JKolasch
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