Poem: Thirty weeks, almost.

Thirty weeks, almost.

 

As you sit, awkwardly, on the reclining chair,

belly – burgeoning, imposing – taking up space,

smeared in cold, gelatinous goo,

you gaze, nowhere in particular, trying

not to think beyond now. Then,

“That’s a lovely baby you have there,”

and you wonder how she knows,

and your eyes fill.

 

 

 

*Photo by Bich Ngoc Le on Unsplash
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