Birthday

The summer labored against an agonized yawn, and through its sweated lips withdrew a round fruit. It is too big to ask how it had ever fit. She collapses and withers, her waters vaporing skyward, no afterbirth brought forth. I take the fruit. It is fresh and red and promising, and a great parallel to the shriveled season that lays quieted in her phoenix-ashes. It is warm. You lay in it, in all your babied splendor, you curl in its yolky folds. I am the new mother, with a feverish pride, the blood-beaded brow. I bite, bite the crisp stone, and drink you in. I feel your bones, my bones and all your veins take hold. Your eyes unfurl as ship sails, over mine.