Seventh Month

Heart swells

and yet something inside

feels like a cobra

slithering and biting.

A blessing.

So why do you have the chills?

You’re carrying around

a couple of pounds of fatback.

Your joints insist on telling you

the weight exactly.

Now for every licked finger,

there’s a gray ghost

wavering at the end of the bed.

For love hard as marble

there’s a limp wet feeling.

Night after night,

it’s one invisible kiss,

and then the world

lands its fist halfway up your teeth.

Oh, joyous, expectant mother.

The moon is painfully rocking your hips.

And you’re flaunting a faint smile.

Nothing here caused it.

Looks like it strayed.

—

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and Clade Song.