I worry of
everything. Perhaps an ectopic
growth: lying prone inside five months.
Register likely signed in absentia.
The midwife, possibly a ghost
(only there when eyes are closed).
In the theatre wake-dream doctors discuss rugby, maybe.
And what if the scream is breech – flesh hot as if tearing
apart? Conceivably neither he nor she and the surgeons will not see
which sex is less cursed.
Worst risk of all: to birth a perfect girl
and feel, completely, nothing.
Plenty girls worry now, the doctor says,
eyes fast on the shock
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