Recursive
On my forty-fifth birthday, my credit
card gave to me:
30% off at Fox (clothes and home goods)
(calculate school shirts, sweatpants, are PJs included?)
a hand lotion from Sabon
a cake of choice at Zariffa,
which I will eat
though I know I shouldn’t.
For the first time
in almost ten years,
I will not
stock up on baby clothes.
For the first time
in almost ten years
there is no baby
strapped against my chest
or billowing my belly.
Wait and wait for the weight to lift
only to try to weigh down again–
blanket, vest, power workouts–
ways to broaden the britteling bones
make being dense
and pin my shadow in place
to be sewn down with a lost thimble.
Of course everything circles round
and one day I’ll look back
and laugh–
or cry–
because all water incubates
in the sea and will return
to the sea
even our tears, with their salty traces
and our salt blood
stained red by iron
like the scraps of metal
in the bucket that seeps rust
darkening the water
that will replenish my rickety lemon tree
whose scrawny branches
struggle to bud
or even unfurl their wings
unlike the irridecent sunbird
that darts between them
searching for the sugar water
I forgot to leave in its feeder
because leftovers and decay
are another’s nourishment
mother other udder
merging and switching
like rippes distorting the pond
that flee my finger
and then still
resolving to a face.
