L J Sysko
Pregnancy, Week 14
When you flutter inside,
the snow returns after 70 degree days,
the raccoon rocks the trash can over
and finds nothing inside,
the balloon’s string falls slack,
unmoved by our house’s
indoor weather, and at night,
turned on my left side for you,
I wake to empty my bladder.
This is the hour when I see images
in the trees from the bathroom window—
a baby whale in the upper branches,
calm, still, fluke erect, an antenna searching
for signals. It is not there during the day, but
at night, on these nights, I see it,
that I can’t unzip out of this skin,
that I am returning, that it returns,
and I swim against its tide to footing
on this cold marble floor, the color of sand
settling, and stand.
