Henry J. Morro

The baby in her womb
is only six-tenths of an inch long.
When we make love
we resonate through its spine,
its arms and legs soft
buds in the mist
of a one-hundred-degree night.

In the morning,
she wakes up to the tiny
bursts of eyes being formed,
a thin bubble pinched
off for a lens
an eye cup stained
with a dark pigment.

It's the blood that swells
the veins under her flesh
and the pelvic sockets
slipping in the heat
that reshape the skin
on her legs.

At night she grinds her teeth
at the minute eruptions
in her body of lips
and fingers and toes.
Every night she grinds her teeth
waiting for the explosions.

--- From Corpses of Angels
©2000 Bombshelter Press
Box 481266
Los Angeles 90048

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