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how the ozone separates from a place

© Ruut DeMeo, 2019

I was contemplating my 

belly as the place where 

reason, foresight and map-making 

join such other ancient fires 


    In hindsight, one remembers the 

    starch of the sheets and the brown  

    plastic food trays. How my breasts were


swollen, bare and sore, drip

dripping the hours, that day 


I’d birthed new places, though

it would take me years to know 

the pierce of those needles passing 


    through me was the only kind of time that

    regrows itself, replacing, giving. Another

    set of lungs, draining as a sea-creature


beached ashore, began to pump that sterile room’s

air. And to think that she and I had passed 

between us, some ozone of our own, until our 


    secret highway was left to brew, left to 

    stay warm and wet in new blood, to 

    breathe womb-fire again

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