Sonnet -- At 40 Weeks


Swollen, a dream on its way to fruition;

Nothing romantic. Lense (soft-focus) gone.

Real fruit bruises; a real fruit stays the motion

We make ourselves. Our unkempt pieces drawn

Into alignment; some beings are too real

To smudge with soft words. Some beings delight

In waking up the small pith in the chest

With beating limbs. It is a sudden sleight

Of soul, not hand; the itch will soon persuade

Myself to love my stippled skin far more

Than when it held just me. I am arrayed

In bright humanity -- naked and sore,

A simple breath moves, joyous in its leisure,

Fearless and proud of every fleshly measure.

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