It was not love that ended
in a conception, but a rebel
course of the self, grown out
of control into a universe
of its own—new arterioles, sleek
knots of veins to feed what is, in essence,
more of me, transfixed beneath a bowl
my bones make of my neck, an angry
lung fugitive.
The treatment room today
appears a darker shade of gray, and the walls
feel plump with picture frames of river
beds—an unwanted reminder of a smoother
passing, the endlessness of water bodies
like itinerant souls; being, in a way, a tougher distraction
from my body’s reckless arithmetic.