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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