Borrowing the rib by Elizabeth H. Barbato
Because Eve never asked
why she was bone and Adam
clay and where names come from,
I wrote a poem for Nyla,
my little fish in darkness,
my secret little perfect tiny girl,
my one letter in alphabet soup,
lollipop sandwich, left in a bucket.
I saw you at no weeks,
and then at two. You
were a dime, not even a quarter.
I picked you up off the ultrasound
and folded you in my pocket.
Nobody saw. Security was lax
that day, I guess. I splintered
my heart into bone and no-one knew,
not even the dolphins that swam
in yellowing seas on the ceiling
following no compass rose, carved
in amniotic wax, carved in omission.
Elizabeth H Barbato is an English teacher born and raised through her college years in New England. She ended up in New Jersey, where for fourteen years she has taught writing, drama and music to every age from kindergarteners to high school seniors. She’s spent the past several summers finishing her doctorate, fishing in VT, and going to northern Scotland to check out the Picts (there aren’t any left). This summer she’s sailing to the Galapagos. She has poems in current or forthcoming editions of Apple Valley Review, Poetrybay, The Litchfield Review, Foliate Oak, and Stride.
