First published by Corporeal Literary Magazine.

Remember when you used to dance
on tabletops, blonde hair swinging
across the top of your shoulders and hips
swaying with rhythms of alt rock and
unsteady hand holding a glass,
a little rum and coke and lime spilling
over the rim.

Remember when you flaunted
perky breasts and rounded buttocks,
one knee bent, ninety-degrees of toned
muscle and sun-licked hue
flipping on your beach towel like pancakes,
the tiny, crystal grains of sand
a welcome accessory.

Remember when your lips, slick with
love and tinted gloss and passion
pressed into his and you knew
this was it, this was to be the hand yours held
for always, to be the father of your babes
and the other to your
significance.

Remember when you carried her inside,
nine months of tiny skull pressing on bladder
tiny feet kicking at aching ribs after
they told you that you weren’t capable,
didn’t have the right eggs for it, didn’t have the
fertile genes your mother had, but then you
proved them wrong.

Remember when your hips reached outwards
and your breasts firmed up with milk
and your feet outgrew those ballet flats you loved
and the skin on your belly stretched
across the tiny being inside, twisting,
morphing, creating placenta and cord and
sweet daughter.

Remember that, if not for that metamorphosis
I wouldn’t have this little
mirror image peeking around the front door
smiling my familiar smile;
maybe one day she, too, will dance
on tabletops, watch as her hips transform
into a mother’s ovarian bookends.

I loved you then; what times we shared
together, what summer follies, splashing
in the waves and singing karaoke.
I love you now; what miracles we’ve grown
in this garden of structured stems and curvy
petals and such a perfect set
of ovaries.