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.