She is soaring. Tonight
she rose out of their wedding
bed, out from underneath white
down blankets, floating through
the barrel of an invisible
cannon like wish flower seeds.
And he is still sleeping below,
curled like the crescent fetus moon
neither knows is sleeping inside
his tight-rope walking, high-flying
woman. He hugs comforters,
not noticing blank spaces.
Her warmth takes flight, too.
And each time he rolls over, snores,
spreads himself across her
side of the bed, their baby kicks,
tiny toes tapping in
a Merry-go round jig,
somersaulting in the frost.
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