Poetry

“The Nature of Things” by Helen Heath.

My hand runs over
my distended belly.
I think of my mother,
her own bulge,
talking to my father about getting ready
for when the baby came.
Did she notice his tears?
The morphine
and tumours in her belly and brain
removed her completely
from the present.
I dreamt last night of my daughter
ripping her way out of me
like an alien.

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