The (Pregnant) Body of Words

My body was made to do this.

A woman's body, like a wave, changes shape when she moves.

There is a kind of gravity that keeps pulling me back to center
as I expand.

My feet, so sore, relish touching the ground. The wet, wormy ground outside. The dry, carpeted inside. My arches have lowered. So I lift my toes.

My body is getting used to this. I can move with baby-consciousness now, marveling at my size and strength as I pull books out of my car, carrying cups of tea out of my car, yoga mats, CD cases, laptop, piles of clothing. I sleep with six pillows. I dream vividly of strangers.

I trust this now.

The scents of the body are so familiar now. There is a milkiness to the skin, a gloss to the hair, a ruddiness to the cheeks. The fingers are plump yet muscular, fingernails naturally curved and strong and long. There are skin tags that itch. A belly button is pulled almost flat. Scar tissue taut across belly. Dark brown nipples, heavy breasts on light ribcage. A fine sweat like mist underneath. Triceps still give definition. Thighs still solid, mama jaguar crouching.

I do think of all the mothers.

All the sons. The fathers.

And we, the daughters.

The makers of the earth. The dreamers at sea. Keepers of the trees and the birds, of all the eggs and seeds. The planet's supple and ready to ripen, all that potential held in like breath or a cloud, darkening and about to drop. Or lightening and spreading thin as paper across the sky, tearing.

I am bathing in this moment. In these times. As a dancer poised at the edge, as a bear in a cave, an instrument in its velvet lined case, a reed longing for the wind.