poem: to arizona governor jan brewer

My mother didn’t get the memo, about her pregnancy.
No one bothered to tell her that my conception began
two weeks before my conception began and the thing is,
I think she’d remember.  She’s had thirty years to remind
herself I no longer reside in her body,
but there are days she still looks at me as if
I’m but a heartbeat in her gut,
as if it is still thirty-six weeks before the doctors cut her
open when I prove too comfortable to leave.  It is these days
when she cradles me without knowing,
when she says I love you as if wearing her maternal voice
for the first time.  I would love to see you ask her how it feels
to remember every week she carried me except for two weeks
you invented, would you ask her if she
possessed symptoms of early onset dementia?
There are times she looks at me as if I’m two breaths from
becoming a thought, as if her body just hinted at the shift,
and sometimes I feel it, the swarming globe of heat, the walls
of skin separating me from her hands.  Sorry Jan, those two weeks
did not happen.  I’d remember.  I was there.

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