There's a heartbeat in there.
One hundred and twenty-five rotations
around the sun. Slender arrow navigates
the screen; it is a shipless endeavor.
The doctor indicates half her index finger,
calls it a grain of rice,
another food that is baby.
I can hardly tell what holds you in the black hole,
divot of body. There you cling, suspended,
egg sac for company, a lonely sight.
You, I think, are what causes all this unrest,
this turmoil of stomach to ceiling,
of lurching across the room. O lurking lark,
O sweet boiled rice. You and I
will waltz upon the water.