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.