Swallow

I am thankful to not be a fish
          again in this life.

When I see a restaurant tank
my jaws swell in remembrance
gulp ice water like air

It could be worse, my dear
my mother’s port-wine birthmark
ripples around her neck
as she waves her fork
She does not eat beef.

My daughter is inside me,
the size of a peach.
At night we dream of falling.

It is not to be feared
because her wings
beat us aloft, one-two
as we step down from the sky.

Was I delicious,
she asks as we pluck
          cloves from her hair and skin.

Very.

Hal Y. Zhang

Hal Y. Zhang is a word arranger and lapsed physicist who splits her time between the east coast of the United States and the Internet. She writes at halyzhang.com, and her science fiction chapbook Hard Mother, Spider Mother, Soft Mother was published by Radix Media.

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