Issue 2.2 Spring 2007

cover image

 

The Little Miracle

Sarah Lindenbaum

 

My womb is already fat with child

the day after we fit each other together

like human puzzle boxes and already

I want to be rotted fruit, forgotten as

 

the day we fit each other together

atop a mattress with a black hole center.

I want to be rotted fruit. (Forgotten,

my seeds drift, unplanted in old grounds.)

 

Atop the mattress with the black hole center,

we locked into position like five-tiered stars.

My seeds drift, unplanted, in old grounds,

ungluing in slow visceral dances.

 

We locked into position like five-tiered stars,

tilting in the sky and telling fortunes, then

ungluing in slow, visceral dances.

I hate to be taught anything disposable.

 

Tilting in the sky and telling fortunes, then

plummeting: life is unfair and miserable.

I hate to be taught anything disposable

about love and goodness always expires

 

—plummeting. Life is unfair and miserable

from inception. What can a seed tell me

about love? And goodness always expires—

it is bloody pulp between my legs.

 

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