Picking Sunflowers While Pregnant

My heart, doubled, looks for the yellowest
petals, the sturdiest stem. 
Honeybees cling to the centers like moths
to a bright bulb. 
The air is noisy with insect music,
voices fuzzy and distant. 
I can hear the child crying. The car tire
slipping in mud. I see a woman
handing another woman lemonade. 
Human bodies are so small on a hill,
spaced between the other 
like destinations on a map. 
 
When I am deep within the field,
the stem breaking against
the shears between my palms, the flower 
detaching as it falls 
seamlessly, helplessly—
close enough to hear the weeds
fold beneath my feet, 
I know no one else can know this.