Читать книгу Exhibitionist - Molly Cross-Blanchard - Страница 11

Lying in bed you tell me we’re attracted

to the genes we want and yeesh do I

ever want yours. They say it’s colonial to measure your blood but

I don’t wanna have to tell my babies You’re Métis, but

Can*da says you can’t have the card. Creator gave you those

good Métis cheekbones for my babies to inherit and for me

to smooch on, thick dark hair, and toe-thumbs. I’ve got

thyroid disease, adult acne, a high probability

of birthing twins. Like Ms. Frizzle inside Ralphie, I want to float

through your veins on a red blood cell raft, unpack my

boxes inside the curve of your aorta, sticky tack

a Buffy poster to an arterial wall. I want to duplicate myself

four times, send my bodies to the tips of each of your limbs,

and me behind your eyes. I want to see you

seeing me, the traits you’ll look for

through incubator glass. Honey, I’m ready to hatch

all your toe-thumbed kin. Teach them how to walk

on their hands, wave thank you to Creator with their feet.