Black. So galaxy vast
and massive. It was, baby.
Less with room. Dark


On the morphine drip my fairy tale
mother quit eating/speaking Inklish.
She spoke only German droplets.

A trail left for me like kuchen crumbs.
Lost wife/witch wondering who will run her
big kitchen while she is floating in

paranoid gibberish. I divined her
dying tongue/stutter tapping out
slices of the fruit torte conception:

Believes she is here
because she is pregnant again/
on opiates so high

but the strangest post
partum is/was cancer much
younger than me/Gretel now.




Hope floats me in the face
of their drowning sounds,
their clinical, vacuous sweep-

ing while the camera searches
my space bleariness. Light shines
open against my sex milky way

but stumps on a bump of lump.
Crater mound like a Quasar.
The assistant takes notes.


        Family History: Any
        close blood relatives
        who have. Reproductive:
        You never had children.
        Ethnicity: White women
        from Europe. Other:


Science comes before
the biblical. The astronomers
wear sterile, bright white

robes. Detect interference
in orbit. An asteroid off course,
heading this way. Comet tail

trailing after like a wedding train.
Jupiterian crush, this news
my planetary cold. This is no fallen

star. This is not. This knot.

Dark room with less baby.
Was it massive and vast?
Galaxy. So black.

When I felt as though a piece of myself was missing
after giving birth,
That's because a piece of myself was missing
after giving birth.

If the transitory nature of my pregnancy took me
from what once seemed a stable frame of mind
to what next felt as manic as
an organ solo
on acid
after giving birth,

Perhaps that's because I felt a piece of myself-
a flat slab of hysterical cake-
form, set, bake
and then
flop out of its spring-form pan.
A birthday ache
that gifted my child life.