Little no-child, wicked womb-fruit,
I grew you in your muscle suit,
My hidden chamber. There was blood,
cold jelly, sonograms: I understood
what you were not. Imposter,
snow blur on the screen yet faster
than a baby fattening, you crept a boneless nightmare, while I slept,
and gobbled at the pith of me.
You blew my belly to its tympany;
with tissue fistfuls, clustered grapes,
shaped my silhouette- it apes
a fecund one, a waiting mother.
But you are no one, and no other
life is housed here,
of giddy blobs, translucent flesh,
yet still I listen carefully and murmur
nothing to your ghostly human brother.