Marni Asplund-Campbell, editor
[p.27] Less than a speck and then a tadpole, now
you are a tiny alligator in
size-two inches of mostly head. Allow
me this: your unreality distending
so slightly my waist, I cannot feel
you as you; you are a tiredness to
bonescore, a sickness refusing repeal.
In the pregnant sleepless hours of night, true
terror blooms big in me—this my body
taken hostage by your all-consuming
innocence. Such benign voracity
strangely tokens death, my life entombing
yours, yours mine.
But grow. Always grow. Growing at
last—out of me, this season’s sowing