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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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