Gestation
by Megan Riggle
For Ashleigh
The patios of August heat cannot hold us in,
Nor your last month of pregnancy.
A Mediterranean salad with hearts of palm
Brought by the Mediterranean waiter
Whose language you speak.
He is much more to our tastes
than this pretense of food.
Indecent sisters, we stare at him.
The salt-blue eyes,
Black curls on his head,
A ringed finger.
We still have shameless little girls in us,
Ruthless, toying things too willing not to play.
He is lighter than that ring,
And the white sea-foam that birthed you,
So easy to drag along.
And who denies our sex, especially yours
Swollen just now with the full moon of a child,
Taut belly protruding to the sun?
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