It was awful. An eye holding its breath.
Later, some night,
I tested this weird spot on the ground
with my foot. I radically,
dramatically slipped and fell in, infinitely.
Cemeterians emptied shovelloads of dirt into the spot. They tried
to grave me. The spot wouldn’t fill. They built
(from what I’ve heard) an awesome grave marker somewhere.
No one briefed me about the inscription they left.
I got word that people fell in my grave spot all the time.
I never met any of them. If I’m all right, they’re all right.
I started out loaded with babies.
I was pregnant for most of the nineties. I was pretty
advanced. I developed good birth skills.
I gave birth to an ottoman, a bicycle, keys,
basketballs. I gave birth to Keith
and he was upset.
Much later, I met some people
like me. It could be said we gave birth to
everything; eventually our own parents, our
grandparents, and our selves. Our system
worked. A planet fell out of us.
Daniel D’Angelo’s poems have appeared in The Collagist, NOÖ Journal, H-ngm-n, and Jellyfish. He is Poetry Editor for Phoebe: A Journal of Literature and Art.