Everybody's pregnant. I myself seem
not to be pregnant most of the time. When
I am, I dream the baby's in a shoe box.
We're all on a plane. The baby is blue.
In the morning the mint rises up from me, a fleeing vapor
it flees, has fled. Mint. Blue mintine babies
abandoning my lungs like tiny forest people
with tails and spears. I don't know where
they're going, they won't tell me.
They run themselves into a vortex
that tumbles off down the mouth
of an enormous fish.
Do they even know my name?
Can you see what I am talking about?
I feel like a million luckless heaps of laundry,
all the mint blown out of me.
The basement is musty and mintless,
covered with coughs. Everybody
who's pregnant smokes too much
and must learn to take care of
the babies. Those babies are
blossoming like swirly lupine, their bright
bobbing crowns appearing on Earth
out of nowhere. First there is just us
in the room, then there's a baby.
Sucking and sucking.
So much wetness: the becoming
of things, the letting go, the fleeing pagan babies,
our love our eating our grief.
I am not yet ready to die.
All the onesies in the dryer
I've been saving for our beautiful blue somewhere.