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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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