In the early hours after I gave 
birth to my last child and before 
the nurse brought her back to me, light-
headed, drowsy, alone in the hospital
room I sat up and swung my legs over 
the edge of the bed. I wanted to see
if, after going through this three
other times, the floor, and the earth
underneath, would hold me up in the same 
way; how soon my older body would snap 
back into itself, rubber sac stretched 
as far as it should go until it was time
for what it held and grew inside to break
free. I pushed the IV drip and stand 
to the bathroom; but before I was done,
a gelled magazine of blood   
slipped out of me. It unrolled on tile,
one last little island shorn off 
the interior country of my body.
Even then, even now, I'm never sure
what I'm allowed to touch; and if I do,
how that will rearrange the mystery.

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