His Dark MouthWendy Wisner
The baby’s gone out with Daddy, his stuffed tomato toy grinning up at me. I hear spring for the first time this year: sparrows gossiping, airplanes scraping rooftops. I feel as though someone has removed a bone from my body. My breasts swell but do not leak and I wonder did it happen? Did a boy live like a squirming fish inside my body? Did he slip in and out of me, the bloated moon bobbing in chapped winter sky? And the body sprawled suddenly on my chest, waxy, blue, and wailing— was that the boy who sleeps each night in the crook of my arm, his dark mouth breaking my skin? I want him. I want him back.
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