Testing

I.
Nothing is more holy shit than the positive
on our bathroom sink. There is a feeling
beyond pleasure, beyond joy, beyond fear,
that chews me from the knees up,
and I need to lie down in the way
that I need to breathe. I bring the positive
to bed.

II.
I am finishing my thesis.
I will tell you that I dream of
my thesis defense, and of the publication
of my thesis-novel, and that sometimes,
in the shower, I hold one-sided conversations
about my novel with Oprah while I clean
body parts that seem different every day.
(My breasts, my stomach, these veins.)
I don’t write as often as I need.
I sleep, I vomit, I try again tomorrow.

III.
The baby is shadows and a heartbeat,
and I want to buy a bassinet to keep
by my side of the bed. The baby looks
(according to my in-laws) like ginger root, and
(according to me) like a lava lamp, and
(according to my husband) like a baby.
There is a hard patch, now, just below
my stomach: a fluid bassinet, a grapefruit.

IV.
It is too early for snow, but I hum
in my bed with the blinds closed
to the afternoon sun–let every heart
prepare him room–and I touch my stomach
carefully, testing, because it is so new. A promise,
a cradle, a room.