I lie in bed most days.
My daughter takes shape in me, begins to collect below my ribs.
I feel her breathing behind the door
She holds up her small hand like she is the Virgin.
Her mouth opens and closes though no words come out.
Silently blesses my body
even though there is nothing left to bless.
I hover between life and death.
She grazes the soft spot of her infant head on my nose
Her beckoning attaches me to the earth.
Her body is an incantation: I am blood.
I am her broken reed.