E.B. Schnepp Psuedocyesis

Summer was for rabbit mothers,

the sacrifice of their stillborn young;


it was around this time my body had ceased to be

a body, became a funeral urn. Round


and painted in intricate hieroglyphs, my face

perched on top, unable or unwilling to admit


what I’d become. A body not made for grief,

but for grieving. I buried the evidence


like a secret, like a miracle I was still hoping could sprout

—if I believed hard enough I could make myself holy,


make my belly child-round—cherry pits

are small enough to be swallowed whole, and


I’m still certain if I swallow enough I could be an arbor,

new growing mother earth, resplendent


in my broken branches. I could close my legs

after immaculate conception and keep this child,


refuse the uncertainty of this birth

and all that comes after, let him be preserved, calcified,


carried through the decades—Schrodinger’s child,

my body both host and tomb.


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