Breadcrumb #307
JORDAN FRANKLIN
My unborn son, you were not
meant to thrive here. I am
Death incarnate, mamba
under a blouse, the trunk
darkening to charcoal. See how
the failed vessels make
an Eden of me, its emerald
leaves dim. Your brothers,
sisters—I loved them all
into the earth. Nothing
rose. Split me
over an operating table
or a canvas. Soften
the openings in oil.
Your father opens me
like a wall, ignores
the shaken columns.
He expects his face
but there you are,
ruby-cradled
in this quiet. I plucked
its barbs myself so you may stay
in this redness, its garden heat
intoxicating as a womb.