I have said that, should I have children, I want to leave them with more than
the postmemory of an Eclectic-Comfort-Trunk
an expired foreign passport, a thrift-store dress,
and a predisposition to be eaten by ants
over which to swing the pendula of their minds in perpetual ululation–
I do not know if I want or will or will not have children but I do know that for more than a decade I have found myself pregnant, pregnant with what might be (might eventually become?) an ant-pellet.
Pregnant with something that I have lately chosen to nourish into a ripe-for-the-spooning kaki.
The 13-year gestation is complete. I finally bear the fruit of my labor.
And I say to it:
I present you the youngest, most insatiable living thing in this world: