On the wall is a growth chart
of what you will never be: apple
seed, bean, cantaloupe. I imagine
your toes, your fingernails, your
translucence. And all this to say
my body will not hold you,
your beautiful helix of cells,
your umbilical tug. There is no
miracle in me, no God to breathe
into the awful tumble of my want.
But already I am carrying you
with me, the idea of you. I carry
you under my tongue, in my teeth,
each finger. I tuck you into
my handbag, my fist of damp
tissues, in this blue dress
I slip back on, rebutton.