__________by Cristal
A dark line runs from your navel to your pubic bone
I call it your equator and rub cocoa butter
on your swollen belly.
You call it your war wound and hide
it with elasticized trousers.
If your line of demarcation is a wound from battle
then we both are permanently scarred,
only my mark of injury is internal
created the day you said “let’s make a baby”
as if I could. But modern technology makes
lots of impossibles possible.
And so we engaged in the battle
to find a daddy who was passionate about the cause
yet practiced neutrality.
We found him.
A Toussaint L'Oveture heart, who won yours.
His passion for the cause was unrestrained
and required no technology.
Remember how flushed your Creole skin was afterwards?
I remember because I was there with cool damp cloths
and ice chips during the hot days of your first months
when his no longer required enthusiasm for the cause
was icing on your cake.
As your belly grew, the wind blew
and with the wind, he blew.
I remained. Even if I felt like I was full of shrapnel.
I remained. Even when you shouted words, unbefitting
a New Orleans belle.
Tonight, as I rub the proof that you are magic,
I am satisfied that I remained,
for you and our coming piti.
I realize, we did win the war.
Your lines, my lines are okay
because every survivor has battle scars.
