Just like any other unborn baby, she takes up all my space. She shoves my innards aside.
Here is my bladder, flat as a pancake. I have to get up every two hours to pee. Here is my stomach, compressed to nothing, yet somehow I have to fill it enough for the both of us. I wonder about the location of my liver and and how it's surviving but it must be there. My intestines, too. I have a lot to digest.
My ribs form an upper limit. A boundary of bone. Yet she reaches up out of my torso, feet stretching, searching. She pedals against my brain, blow after blow, driving the revolutions of a wheel that empties my mind of anything. Everything. But her. And the laundry that must get done before she arrives.
My belly is a balloon that will deflate very soon. My mind will contract with it. I know. I've done this before.
But I trust. trust. trust that mine is a well that keeps on filling. A flood of living water saturates the cracks of a space that seems so full
cold and keeping me alive so when the stars line up and the season changes again, I'll still be able to
enough to call a rose a rose
and find my own face in the mirror.