Margaret Anne Kean

MY FINGERS SLIDE ACROSS THE LINE

of my belly scar: each raised bump and ragged dash
a memory of other bodies enveloped in liquid:

possibilities like ripening cranberries or wild rice:
two daughters’ hearts in sync with mine, yet separate.

Long before their births, I was once an egg
within my mother, inside my grandmother:

where words of ancestors reverberated,
amplified. Perhaps remnants of their fears

pushed through membranes
into the cavity where I rested.

Embedded inside, unseen for years,
maybe that’s why I stumble, surprised.