where the writers are
Stretched

Her stomach hangs in two deflated flabby folds;
a crepe paper rose crumpled
by the knowledge of its imitation.

Her child thriving despite the absence
of the Slovakian Y chromosome donor
living in Sydney, busy discarding his Eastern
European skin after screaming fuck you
(not anymore) on Facebook.
                                                                                                                        
Twenty-one years old. Nonplussed thoughts 
glide like silverfish—Celexa, Paxil, Prozac,                                
Zoloft. Which one will teach her she’s alive
because she’s living.

Her child’s eyes; long-lashed,
lit with mischief. Relatives proclaim, 
exactly like his mother’s
when she was young.