The winter moon turns on again. I want to lick
ice off the windowpanes.
I haven’t left the house today. On this bed
I will become a mother, a cannibal in a wet bra,
eating my placenta like a sugar cube.
Soon my stomachs will empty their baskets of
stars on the ceiling. How hungry will I get.
Every flutter I only imagined, the baby
an angel going back to being an angel—born
from the defrosted sea in a bright blue coat.