in utero
At nine weeks, the book tells me,
the baby is the size of an olive.
Within a month she expands
to a plum, a lime, a peach.
In my dreams brilliant fruits
twist and strain at the stem.
At week fourteen, she becomes
my fist, at seventeen, my hand
spread wide. I close and open
my fingers, watch the shadow
curl in the warmth of my palm.
I wish my body were known
by images, aligned with the world
of things: a six-foot young maple,
a giant neon I, a humpback’s
glittering fluke. I would glide
in the pulse of dark water
[....]