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.

• • •