Читать книгу The Unmapped Woman - Abegail Morley - Страница 11

We all start in water ‒ endure its fullness,

bellies hoarding each molecule,

the swell of its ocean windblown

for a thousand miles.

So when her tide breaks,

she’s hauled from

the house with the knowledge

she’s rupturing.

I brim mid-stride

on the uneven pavement, split our blood

for the first time. She watches me

glisten across tarmac,

takes her fulsome weight from the kerb

to the taxi, hopes to replenish

us both with a sack full of saline,

knows

she’s not the right one

to receive the cuckoo-baby nestling

in the thud of her pelvic bones.