A time for everything.

So far, this is my favorite entry from "The Spirit of Pregnancy".

Pregnancy Log
Julie Convisser


Harbor
In the beginning, neurons bloom like kelp.

49 Days
I sleep eleven hours, surface for bananas and saltines,
sleep again. We are vessel and cargo
tossed in a merciless passage of becoming.
I am seasick; I want nothing
but the pulse of this vast ocean,
a glimpse of seahorse spine.

105 Days
I have seen the soft mound of island,
not shore, but a place of resupply.
There are fingers and toes in my hold,
kidneys and ears. I slosh and sway,
ample with blood. The wind rises hard
in my lungs.

123 Days
At 1:00 and 4:00 I am awakened by an ache
I cannot name. Night's membrane
covers the stars. I navigate
without memory or compass.
What ballast weighs me, what current
do we ride?

142 Days
In ultrasonic brilliance a dolphin twists,
a cormorant shakes its wings.
Sealed inside my treasure chest:
matchstick ribs, a tiny, chambered heart.
I bear them through warm salt
to a strange continent.

156 Days
Every day now I feel the delicious turbulence
below. Flying fish: it beats
against gunwale and deck,
dives through my interior.
Hot sun, balmy wind: I have only
to keep an even keel.

173 Days
Moon pours lava over the sea.
I walk the night, unsteady in my joints.
A comet not seen for 4,000 years
arches in the northern sky.
Something as timeless, as immeasurable,
orbits in me.

196 Days
We bump and thrash forward,
list with the precious load.
Seams swell, ligaments stretch.
At dawn I taste the edge of thunder
and know we crossed
the meridian.

224 Days
Every pore chafes with salt.
We journey on and on,
through ancient waters. In my dreams
what I long for cries out
in the sweetest voice
and I take its glimmering head to my breast.

259 Days
The wind has died.
In the early spangle light
moths rise from sailcloth.
The cargo ripens as we rock.
sand and pine tease my nostrils.
Somewhere in a new land we are expected.

285 Days
We run aground.
Everything bucks and rumbles
under the strain. Waves rush over and over
washing me to my knees.
There is only the great heaving,
the excruciating letting go.