The Little Miracle

Sarah Lindenbaum

 

My womb is already fat with child

the day after we fit each other together

like human puzzle boxes and already

I want to be rotted fruit, forgotten as

 

the day we fit each other together

atop a mattress with a black hole center.

I want to be rotted fruit. (Forgotten,

my seeds drift, unplanted in old grounds.)

 

Atop the mattress with the black hole center,

we locked into position like five-tiered stars.

My seeds drift, unplanted, in old grounds,

ungluing in slow visceral dances.

 

We locked into position like five-tiered stars,

tilting in the sky and telling fortunes, then

ungluing in slow, visceral dances.

I hate to be taught anything disposable.

 

Tilting in the sky and telling fortunes, then

plummeting: life is unfair and miserable.

I hate to be taught anything disposable

about love and goodness always expires

 

—plummeting. Life is unfair and miserable

from inception. What can a seed tell me

about love? And goodness always expires—

it is bloody pulp between my legs.

Euphemism Campus Box 5555 Illinois State University Normal, IL 61790