Prodrome

The veil between true and false
is lifted. The illness, the surreal turns towards me
her face newly displayed -
a bride with pink cheeks -
and she kisses me deeply.
 

Months pass. I am pregnant with her child.
Inside my womb is a child of insight
that trait which has been bred by me,
by times tables, and rote lines of cursive.
Still, the child has two parents.
 

Inside my womb is a child of artifice.
She will have pink cheeks
and her eyes will be green, or grey
and they will dart around the room like startled moths.
She will stutter and mutter
and tap toes on hardwood
and her eyes again, will flutter
shut, revealing shiny eyelids.
 

I have no insight
into which way she will grow
and bloom
and whether she will kick and scream
or come to me when I call.
But this child will be mine
and I will hold her on my hip
until she refuses to be held any longer.
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