On an X-ray, the stomach’s curve is more like
a waxing moon than organ, just a phase
unchanging in the belly’s sort-of womb.
When I was young at church camp, we would get out
the Ouija board and try to levitate,
smashing a flashlight in one cheek to make
a ghost story turn horror. I would make
going through a “knowing” phase
like all believers do—blessing to womb
to tomb. Growing.
Tonight, I’m playing out
“Go Down, Moses” as if it’ll levitate
right off the turntable. Or levitate
higher, a disc remixing the sky.
the sky move would be sick, or really, like,
anything. Maybe time could be a phase.
I press a flashlight hard against my womb,
spreading my legs to see if white comes out.
If only anything came slightly out
of the ordinary, my skin would levitate,
each layer would hover. I aspire to make
a glory of a woman rising like
a field below a bluff, but not a phase
of failed perception. An evening.
in my throat now.
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