Researchers Find The Father's DNA Stays in the Brains of Impregnated Women, Even Those Who Don't Carry to Term
by Meghann Plunkett
At the store they don’t have oranges
so I scoff loudly, yes, dig my thumb into
one perfect tomato. The spite is not mine
and I can tell it’s him. At the bar
my eyes slope up and down the skinny girl.
I imagine taking her home, yes, pushing
her face away as I fuck her. My hands feel
too large, so empty. And what about
the salt melting on my tongue? A spoonful
each morning, hungry for something
bitter. Look
at him, nested inside my newfound fear
of heights. That one wire-hair growing
from the bone of my chin. A chimerism
boiling my irises darker into his hazel
flecked daggering. Yes, I did not
ask for this: a hollow booming from the core
of me; loss stinking of breastmilk; swelling
awake each morning, my hands wrapped around
my own throat. How can I forget this small mite
sleeping through me? Tree knots rotting soft
through my temples. How do I knock the neon
out of that night? How can I forgive the girl
who said yes? Goddamn it, I said yes.
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