Harbinger

lifting up the corner

of the tattered quilt—

patches of cotton rags

in navy, forest, burnt umber

and goldenrod—to stare

at her convex edge,

swollen portent,

that which is already

2 weeks overdue

to become his.

the quilt, embroidered

like clouds outside

the frozen pane,

winter chill robed

in ferric ripples;

the canyon outside, tattered

like the threadbare nightshirt

and grey sweatpants

that wore like eyelids

around her indicating middle,

hoping for a miracle

like address illegible,

insufficient postage,

return to sender…

the apparition of a sigh

disappearing as he turns,

caresses her warm sin,

and feels a kick.