I used to know my womb
as a desert.
Her darkness
tormented by relentless, thirsty winds,
a thirst so profound
the cells and membranes could offer up
only dust.
I used to know my body
as a rebel.
She sneared defiance at my directions:
Shrink yourself
Be athletic
Lose some weight
but also:
Nurture life
Get pregnant
Become a mother
She railed against my will like it was her job
to defy me.
Knuckles bare, teeth sharpened,
I injected her with hormones,
put her under the knife
and extracted the eggs until I was
drunk on the treasures, those few
precious pearls.
I used to know my baby
as a number.
Embryo #9, AA rated.
Over the long months inside my darkness
he began to tend a small fire,
the one I had buried
beneath sagebrush and sand.
His barely formed soul
and a whisper of breath
fanned the spark,
while I fed it lasagna and sourdough bread
and all of the other things that fires like.
And just past midnight
when he was finally borne from my body
in such a rush of blood and fluids that
no dust could survive it,
I held my perfect body
and told her
I love you.
I love you.