In the dream I smooth a hand over my belly,
thick with ripeness, a pregnancy, a melon.
It ends in a stillbirth, creativity
bypassed, membranes of thought
flushed. A punishment arranged itself
in my sleep. Judgment of the self.
I wake in celestial sweat, slide one foot
onto a cold floor. I am gladder to be alive
in the dark, in the dank, where I started
as a cloud, where I started as a poem.