Possum Pouch

black stone 1

HERE SWIMS THE EARTH-BOUND babe, moving day and night. Speak through a thin shell of skin, fluid deep on the other side. I kiss Hoa's broad belly. Trace her linea negra, pubis to breast bone. Outside a perfect crescent moon points both ends up to make a horn. "Mama Luna Moona," I said to my son, rhyming with the "Foona Lagoona Baboona" in Dr. Seuss. The February night's cold, black but for that moonlight and a few silver constellations bright enough to break the city's orange aura. There's a dead china berry downed by last week's storm. It fell into the giant cane, golden shells clumped above utility wires and where a cardinal this morning sang. Her belly is warm, exposed to a steaming cup of tea. She sips it and shows me where the baby kicks. Like burbling, gurgling fluid black as stone. I touch the movement where my hand nearly cups a little butt. Head down. Open the gates. Let in the light. And my son sleeps in another room, holding a plastic toy. The air outside's quite still. There's only the sound now of traffic.