In a Conversation with a Friend I Say Apricot

and once again it is July, hot in the canyon,
my feet are swollen, my belly is round

and full, ripe as the fruit in the trees.
A girl is growing inside of me. And the river

banks along the orchard’s edge burgeon
with the memory of last winter’s snow

and the whine of mosquitoes is fierce.
I say apricot and I feel the deep cramp

of the body before it pushes new life forth.
I am breath. I am groan. I am widening

door, I am pulse, I rock, I moan long and low,
I am dampening red, I am oh, and the apricots hang

sweet and heavy on the bending boughs,
the noon sun burns high in the blue and a girl is born.


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