The poem is the year
by Kristin Berger

My womb is the small secret page,
the right words dividing, scrolling to life.

In January, I crochet a blanket to cover my lap,
then fall asleep. Rain swims gray and light.

February. A candle. The table set.
The love between. The heartbeat.

March is an ocean storm, logs rolling,
beach-etching. I wake up.

In April I de-robe and laugh.
I eat yogurt and begin to consider Baby.

By May I wear the mother-clothes and show
the world the old roses in the backyard
that open pink and sharp-scented.

In June my nipples darken and I sleep the long dreams,
day and night, of a woman being visited.

July, I drive to the desert and cross the cool creek
that plays with the roots of pines.
She whispers with the stars, my belly her tent.

August. The heat. The tomatoes.
The whale swallowed by the woman.

September arrives and we harvest and feast.
We labor at sunset on the Equinox.
We push. You pull.

The girl-child finds her way.
My breasts leak gold.
The poem is flesh-made,
glistening, unbound.