Catharsis

I used to dream I was pregnant,
my stomach a porcelain bowl
of milk and cereal,
and I would wobble
with the weight
over stones at the coast
of the beach.
If I fell into the water
my limbs would expand:
numb, prickling,
packed with sand.
My lungs
and my baby’s lungs
would fill with water.

My mother spent three years
trying to grow me in her belly.
I have always carried that weight.

Now, trees droop with fuzzy auras
of yellow-green leaves in the spring.
My uncle catches a dark
round fish in the
Delaware Bay.
I lay in bed, awake,
and feel inverted,
staring at my hip bones.