by Hannah Port

Sometimes I think of my big-bellied baby.
How he looks up,
towards balloons or bubbles
and stares at his face reflected,
all bowed and twisted
by latex and soap,
struggling to push off my chest
to join them.

I know all about big-bellied babies.
How his name would be Olive
and you would beat on his belly
like your drum.
How you would tap on mine to the beat
and we could watch him
wear in my mother’s eyes
and your father’s earlobes.

Back to Poetry.

Back to Issue ​7​.