Birthday
The summer labored against an agonized yawn,
and through its sweated lips
withdrew a round fruit.
It is too big to ask how it had ever fit.
She collapses and withers, her waters
vaporing skyward, no afterbirth brought forth.
I take the fruit.
It is fresh and red and promising,
and a great parallel to the shriveled season
that lays quieted in her phoenix-ashes.
It is warm.
You lay in it, in all your babied splendor,
you curl in its yolky folds.
I am the new mother, with a feverish pride,
the blood-beaded brow.
I bite, bite the crisp stone, and drink you in.
I feel your bones, my bones
and all your veins take hold.
Your eyes unfurl as ship sails, over mine.
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