Bath With Bump

By Irene Halpin Long

 

I lie in the water.

Is mise an Blascaod Mór

and you are a pebble

deep within my belly.

 

My hair is a sea anemone,

fanned and filtered,

waving at the ceiling’s fluorescent sun.

 

I try to imagine what it is like for you,

floating in swaddled sound.

Does your hair fan out in its amniotic sac?

Do you even have hair?

 

My belly is a clock;

your legs kick the tick-tock

signalling each cell multiplying;

the shoot, sprouting.

 

Sometimes, the tick-tock stops.

I hold my breath.

I prod the pebble awake.

I splash water over what might be your face.

 

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Cover photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash