You twist and writhe between pangs of hot rake scraping 
low belly—how can a body withstand this?

Nausea roars up, carries you across cool tile to genuflect at the bowl,
the vomit an angry scream of steak and syrah.

His warm hand on your back, an affront,
wishing he would leave, wishing he wouldn’t.  

Each projection into the porcelain leaves you gasping,
then weeping, from exhaustion,

from something older, to do with loss, 
to do with longing,

with watching him hold a friend’s baby,
big arms snugging it close.

To do with waiting rooms,
with pinching your tummy roll,

piercing it, the bright jewel of blood that blooms 
where the needle was, the luminous bruises.

As you shiver, the bathmat rough against your cheek,
you wonder what it would feel like to unclasp 

your arms from around this dream you’ve been rocking,
open them out like wings,

feel the sun beat down on your face,
fresh air on your feathers.

You wonder if there might be a strength in yielding,
a lightness in the fall.