Doctors lie, Danny taught me this.
Its hunger making the belly puffy and stretch ugly. The sonogram was extraterrestrial--gray, foreign, ghost liquid with a heartbeat--amplified over stereo¾the movement inside: Hunger.
Winter so much later. X-ray was the outside. I recognized the bare color of my stomach on the sky.
A bird flew slow in the still-cloud-sky. If it fell quick, go thump in the snow, I'd save it. We'd run down deep in the dead-wood and we'd sleep in the pine needles. We'd live on the harvest of snow.
One day, the ghost liquid fell, went watery on the afghan.
It crumpled in the backseat moving, rustled alive in a blue plastic bag.
The cold wind argued us from the open window. We rustled together--swooning--broken harps and doll eyes.
Danny kept the car door open--down to the bridge he went. The trestle sways back and forth in the ugly wind--down to the bridge he goes.
He fed the bridge water ghost liquid and the ghost liquid born into stars.
Danny fed the bridge water stars.
We go to McDonalds then.
McDonalds all dirtied by leftover food, leftover people. Danny complains to the redheaded cashier. I ate at our booth by the window¾wiping off the table to please Danny. My bare color is on the still-cloud sky. I'm hungry.