the gendered body emerges
from the womb. it cries, it breathes,
jaundiced, destined to juxtapose
and tumble and graze. she says
oh my god, what a girl.
the glass tends the copy, he
brushes hair and grass back and
cannot stop smiling. he says
it’s summer soon, debate the
victory we have crawled over
this significant skin. these life-
changing lungs. this glittering
gem, unequalled. and now
after the weaning, things may
return to a new normalcy: back
to citalopram, the clean star of
yesterday, unfamiliar arms.
sickened by serendipity, likes to
shower in the morning, refuses
to eat anything except strawberry
yoghurt for weeks. a noise she
heard in the night is the baby
crying. that blank form filled
out by every new parent upon
birth: girl, sound and whole
girl, will marry a beautiful boy and
have beautiful clones pushed from
beneath her ribs girl. everything she
was or wasn’t, should have been.
by tori aitken
