By Stacey Foster

I almost killed him.
A worthless pancreas
Sent sugars into his cells.

Dr. Cheng said,
Shots in the belly
Will save you.

And, him?
I asked.

A miscarriage waiting . . .
Were his words of condolence.

So, I waited.
Absently
As I stabbed my stomach
With anti-sweetener.

I waited.
For the black blood,
For the cramps,
And the water on my legs.

But instead,
I grew.

Filled like a syringe
As his gray portrait
Lit the ultrasound.
Until he was ready.

And they sliced me, like an orange.
Pulled him from my center.

And he screamed.

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