You aren't crated, egg-basket, your shells
chipped like flint. There are a dozen wands
bound for the dump, for you, curiosities,
me hunched on the bathroom floor. I can feel you,
slight bump, right ovary, competition,
compensation. There's a ring around my iris,
deep sleep when winter's over; equinox is only
a few days away. I wonder if I will be rounder then,
not rounder because of the disease,
but rounder because when I say you, I mean something,
I mean: someone is coming.
Molly Sutton Kiefer is the author of the hybrid essay Nestuary (forthcoming, Richocet Editions) and the poetry chapbooks The Recent History of Middle Sand Lake (Astounding Beauty Ruffian Press, 2010 winner) and City of Bears (dancing girl press, 2013). Her work has appeared in Harpur Palate, Women's Studies Quarterly, WomenArts Quarterly, Berkeley Poetry Review, you are here, Gulf Stream, Cold Mountain Review, Southampton Review, and Permafrost, among others. She is a member of the Caldera Poetry Collective, serves as poetry editor to Midway Journal, and runs Balancing the Tide: Motherhood and the Arts | An Interview Project.