Week Twelve  

 

Thou shalt not eat fish in case her brain

is inclined to be sluggish, her nails and teeth

prone to be weak. Thou shalt not lift

heavy objects, thou shalt not use oil-based paints.

 

Week five, and the baby’s the size

of a lima bean, week twelve the size of a shrimp.

And shrimp, like fish, thou shalt not eat.

And weeping—thou shalt not.

 

I’ve been unmade. I’ve watched my feet swell,

and my hands, watched my hair grow thick as a hedge.

Oh world—why these things? Why burn down your trees,

burn down your houses?

 

Why sorrow? This old man in the dark

is begging for change outside the restaurant,

it’s cold, his coat’s thin, once upon a time

he kicked like a frog, stretched like a cat,

 

sucked his thumb and swam inside someone’s body.

World, I’m afraid. Thou shalt not fear, but I fear.

Thou shalt not want, but I want.

 

  

 

Counting

 

He’s always the first one awake, and the room’s

so quiet. She sleeps, he counts her ribs.

 

The house is like a canopy of leaves, house

for keeping off the sun, house for holding off the rain.

 

He’d read that a woman’s soul

was like a house full of rooms. He’d also read

 

that the soul in sleep would sometimes

leave the body. What to believe? 

 

He eyes the small of her back. He eyes

her pillow, her fan of hair, her swelling belly.

 

They’d have to go shopping today, nothing

fit anymore. They’d have to go shopping, and

 

she’d call him a liar when he told her

in front of the tall mirror that she didn’t look fat.

 

But now the house is quiet. And he counts,

house for holding things out. Now he’s counting

 

in the quiet house. And slow and even like

an old clock ticking, she’s breathing.