Sometime in the future, I am
expected to have a blood clot and call it my son
my embryo
my fetus
a comet shooting from between my thighs.

I am female. Parts of me will
move on to form an extra set of toes for eighteen
years,
he may hear how unlike me he looks
why his freckles are in the wrong place:

he will learn of adoption
then become convinced that we purchased him
came gift-wrapped
in a blanket, a placenta.

My husband, another set of toes,
will bring out the belly photographs and realize
there has been a whole field of corn
metal poles threatened by
a lightning storm right on my skin ever since.

The child
   my embryo
         my fetus

the handful of cells
will ask if there are any brothers and sisters in
there, inside me.
No, son, just glowing orbs of gas
only stars:

I can hold a whole galaxy under my ribcage
but not another
nine-month long thought.