Today she is vicarious pregnancy ills,
shadowy remembrance of fetid bloat,
swollen toes,
ghost of rib kicks
and gas bubbles.

Today she is tides of wheat,
whipping stalks bowed down in
waves by stepbrother wind.

She is plastic ring from milk jug,
hard-boiled eggs at breakfast,
smell of dryer lint and charcoal flame,
empty womb a round echoing drum.

She will float on wood floors,
creak with weight and bad knees crackling,
sit in the hum of air conditioning and preservatives.