A Poem is a Waddle

on balloon feet

with heaving breath

sciatic lightning

a naturally unnatural arch

for the additional twenty pounds

at 33 weeks.

If a poem is recognized by burning,

I know it well:

emotions at the surface

always hot and sweating

Sausage fingers tight around my pen

itching with increased blood flow

and pelvis creaking

as ligaments loosen

and bones shift

to make way for another.

Mr. Ammons,

my poem is a waddle,

and I am

mother duck.