Erin Case, Held High (collage)

In December I saw your belly,
swollen like a stiff balloon
under your too-large clothes.
That miracle always hidden away now
because first we’re too young
for pregnancy and then too old.
An infant is gentle
as a grenade, my grandmother
once told me as we looked through albums
on the kitchen floor.  I didn’t believe her,
but now I can’t bring myself
to know the sex or name.
I imagine you combing through
its hair like foliage,
as if you’ve known the gesture
all along. Just last year we tripped on acid.
I put you to bed while you tried
to show me the two tongues
shivering like snakes in your mouth.


Erin Jones