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In Utero

 

You are becoming too much for me. I find it
difficult to read poetry, to read

anything. I roll onto my side, the book turning
with me, and I feel your body drop

onto the bed, weighing me there, small
anchor. My lungs have learned a new method

of breathing. Everything, all the organs
and bones, have taken new shape. This

is their method of survival: they are like trees—
leaning—when there is water or earth

to consume. Too much destruction. Growing plant,
I take you everywhere. How important it is

to protect your leaves, to keep your branches
from breaking. You do not understand

the burden you have become, all the lost
water, nor how lovely—

the ocean
and the fish who fill it.

 

 

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