His Dark Mouth

The baby’s gone out with Daddy,
his stuffed tomato toy grinning up at me.
I hear spring for the first time this year:
sparrows gossiping, airplanes scraping rooftops.
I feel as though someone has removed a bone from my body.
My breasts swell but do not leak and I wonder
did it happen? Did a boy live
like a squirming fish inside my body? Did he slip
in and out of me, the bloated moon bobbing
in chapped winter sky? And the body
sprawled suddenly on my chest,
waxy, blue, and wailing—
was that the boy who sleeps each night
in the crook of my arm, his dark mouth
breaking my skin? I want him.
I want him back.