Bloom

I stepped on a dead squirrel,
the hem of my maternity pants cuffing
the sidewalk. I imagined the hem slick
with squirrel carcass,
lipping and lacing up my ankle,
and threw the pants away.
Bare-legged in the kitchen, damp feet
on beige octagon linoleum, my belly plaited blue.
You scrubbed the shoes with your mother’s bleach. Scissor-mouthed ants took the squirrel
underground. Shoes tied
in a plastic bag. There they waited, cocoons.
Until my memory of a bulging misstep
went smooth. Until the baby born chunked
with vernix, blood-dazzled, pulled at my thigh,
brittle nails marking white lines like larvae.
A new year, I need black flats: you call,
we’re late, child slams her cup.
Pockets of white blister the floor. Isn’t this the struggle? We shudder against fluids,
keep the sidewalk smooth, floor licked,
skin stitched dry. Meanwhile, the body blooms
a carrion flower, reveals our raw secret:
star-lipped petals, red spathe curls, pollen-
puckered tongue. A trick fly trap, one more sphincter
inside out. Then, plastic bag ripped.
Scrubbed black shoes
over pale carpet. Surprise, pleasure.
Knowing I’d brushed something just dead,
kept walking.