My grandmother the model did not suffer
the supernatural, or God, or pianos
or all bourgeois things,
but the blood in the glass was enough
to stop her from having the abortion.
Instead she kept the fetus, a little worm
inside her. Less terrifying she told me
over steak tartar. The Line Cook & I
want travel but that night my brain unpacked
its lobes like a suitcase (or a stroller)
because what would it be like to hold 1 small us
in my hands?
My mother renounces: the drinking, depression,
your father—the whole trip—except for you girls.
A woman is whole only when she’s
with child. A woman pumps a watermelon
out the width of a coin. A woman is whole
only when she leans forward. It is selfish
to not have a child. It is selfish to have.
I am selfish. We he she are selfish.
The Line Cook takes beef pink as white infants,
sears it, both sides. We never travel,
I want to tell him. My body’s a ghost ship,
a red moon, a blood glass. Our shelter, a torn
tent, a white flag, a time-blind
dissolving, the whole empty
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