Let me witch her into being, moth fingers across my abdomen
in a flicker of evocation. Then it can be the month I feel her swell
to the size of a lemon, stretching the walls of my body
to the shape of home, slick little blood-furrowed membrane
grown from pockets of prayer and winterling stars,
the Virgo of my inner sky.
It will be the year we rock in the tire swing
and draw our sticks through the white, soft sand,
the year I almost drop her, the birthday when I hold her
a little too tight until she squeals and shifts.
Just don’t let it be the night a man asks me for identification,
calls to inquire if someone can explain my presence
on the playground or the unborn daughter I see
ghosting down the slide into my empty arms.
I close out the crescendo, those red and blue aurora-corners
in my eyes so I can search for her, face down in the grass,
where mist like whisper shadow sings to the hot, bittersweet moon.