I finish sewing the last Kevlar veil to cover my womb.
A canopy of afterbirth has replaced the sky.
The city's men gather in an aqueduct, recite spells
until their skins open and they drain into the ocean.
If a savior is coming, he is 98 trimesters late.
The children grow restless rearranging old parables.
A letter from my mother predicts my body
will malfunction, my lungs will stick shut.
This evening, I drive my car motionless in a cul-de-sac
that steers me away from the beach.
Someone has to sift through the foam for half-dissolved
of teeth before a multitude of fish gather at my feet,
before high tide splits my mouth in two.