Ultrasound

ULTRASOUND

 
The body is pregnant                     with limbs

and dismemberment—they tremble

                    and clutch. Their mouths are open

and closed again, the green bodies                     like ghosts

                    turning over, a foot thrusting outward,

another hand reaching                     gripping

                    emptiness. It reaches for you and gathers

nothing, is not angry—tries                     again.

                    This is how you know these are the earliest signs

of motherhood—all that came before (windy breeze)

                    was the carrying.

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About mckenzielynntozan

McKenzie Lynn Tozan lives and writes in South Bend, Indiana, where she works as the Departmental Secretary of English and World Language Studies at Indiana University South Bend, and remains closely affiliated with 42 Miles Press, New Issues Poetry and Prose, and Wolfson Press. She previously received her MFA in Poetry from Western Michigan University, where she worked as the Layout and Design Editor for New Issues Poetry and Prose and as an Assistant Editor of Poetry for Third Coast. Her poems have appeared in Encore Magazine, Sleet Magazine, Rogue Agent, Thank You for Swallowing, Whale Road Review, The James Franco Review, The Birds We Piled Loosely, and Analecta; and her book reviews have appeared on her website and on The Rumpus. She lives with her husband, their daughter, and three cats. For more, visit www.mckenzielynntozan.com. View all posts by mckenzielynntozan

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