I imagined you floating
twelve weeks: limbs, skin, a rapid pulse, swimming
in tiny sac clear like cellophane,
not falling or being torn from me, but raging desire
to run, breathe, touch bread (wine, someday),
sun to lips. And suddenly we were bone
splintered in two, edge pushed through flesh -
a wound. And I imagined you a fairy
in tiny sac clear like cellophane
a swathe of copper and iron confetti,
wings glittering, folded beneath your feet,
standing on the branch of a boab tree
jutting from the lean of my umbilicus.
