On the back of bathroom stalls
salacious animal words suddenly delicious.
I waddle to the store, buy erotic magazines,
read titillating stories in a private corner of the park:
how Rod lusts after what Sylvie does with her dog.
What is wrong with me?
I swell through summer into the third trimester,
swim evenings in the local pool, and after lengths,
soak in the shallow kiddie’s pond,
glowing fecundity. Men try to pick me up
until I rise, my grand womb an inch
from their startled noses.
But I don’t blame them. I want sex all the time,
devour my husband who’s worried but willing
until, at last, the pod bursts
the baby born and I dissolve
into showers of milk.
From Cynthia Woodman Kerkham’s Good Holding Ground
Palimpsest Press 2011
Trade paperback $18