It is 3:30am
And I am pregnant.
This word carries two syllables,
Cupped into each other.
It is 3:31am
And I am young.
That is the burning book between my pupils,
My Bible tossed,
My Qur’an, wasted.
I have been on the absinthe,
And the green tea.
Neither affords me newness,
Look at the limbs growing inside of me.
I haven’t been weeded monthly,
I am pregnant with kisses
And accidents and a tossed condom,
With a forgotten hole leaking it’s way through into my body,
The latex that burst and the womb that burst,
It is 3:34am
And the pregnancy stick waved a wand over my head
And for a while I had two brains,
4 legs and 4 arms,
Extra organs for extra work,
More air to be inhaled
And more to be known.
I took myself to the garden centre
And threaded a needle through my belly button,
And I unpicked the stitches lining my supple bloodiness.
It is 3:37am
And I have tossed the weeds in the bin,
And the extra brain and extra heart never grew a shoot in spring.