Lost Body

In movies, when a soldier is slashedacross the belly, his hands, instinctively,fall and cradle the abdomen; he will tryto gather his guts and stuff themback inside.            To feel her in my bodyswelling still. To see the trashcan overflowwith towels soaked in blood. To keep them.To wonder what is real. When she leftI purred heat for days. Bedriddenwith trees in bloom, hating the blood-blackplums, hating the one fat vein that bisectsevery leaf. Some days

I ride the bus through the shiftsof several drivers; give whole twentiesto a broken man who plays the guitaron his knees. I press my thighs in church pewsand restaurant booths where it seems the feeling of

                    a body might appear—                    but every mother                    with a child knows                    I let us part                    in blood. Abortioncan mean both on purpose and by accidentbut there is always a pocketfor blame.            I buy new sheets and towels. I kiss my husband.I try shriveling down to a single point—I tryexploding. When a soldier                    gets slashed across the belly the agony of opening

will cease when he dies. Breathe and wait,         this is minutes.I am alive but must                be dying. To feel her in my body swelling still. A cradlemy abdomen, how I tried. Now

gather up my blood-silk girl, now            pour her back inside—