Her stomach hangs in two deflated flabby folds;
a crepe paper rose crumpled
by the knowledge of its imitation.
Her child thriving despite the absence
of the Slovakian Y chromosome donor,
living in Sydney, busy discarding his
Eastern European skin after screaming
fuck you (not anymore) on Facebook.
Twenty-one years old. Nonplussed thoughts
glide like silverfish— Celexa, Paxil, Prozac,
Zoloft. Which one will teach her she's alive
because she's living.
Her child's eyes; long-lashed,
lit with mischief. Relatives proclaim,
exactly like his mother's
when she was young.
Original Publisher: Grey Sparrow Journal - online version
Reprinted with permission in The Glass Sponge
Publisher: Finishing Line Press