Invisible Lines

When I first saw their formless
bodies on the ultrasound screen,
worlds unfurled
in their grainy black and white images,
like shapes in a Kaleidoscope.

Invisible lines grew, bonding me to each,
strengthened by the rhythmic sounds of drums
played underwater
that filled every corner of the sterile exam room.

I pushed limbs that bulged.
I sang to them in the shower.
I recorded videos of them moving inside my belly.
I imagined them reading my mind,
tasting my craves —
rock hard sour nectarines,
and vanilla ice cream.

I waddled,
head held high,
big belly bulging,
beguiling attention…

Birth’s aftermath altered connections,
I missed their squirms and punches.
I missed them living in me.
The invisible lines now whispers.

I watched Avner fall asleep as he melted
into me with his warmth.
I looked at his sleepy face,
at his eyes shaped like almonds
with their long, curly lashes
that interlocked like clamshells
at his nose that exhaled soft air.
I stroked his little fingers
with their translucent nails,
touched his thin lips
with drops of milk in their creases.

I looked at Asher in his bassinet.
His lashes, black wings ready to fly.
His dark eyes, black holes against
his milky white complexion
drawing in our shared line.

The invisible lines turned to ropes.
They tugged on my insides,
They wrapped around me,
warming and pulling me
into our babies’ new found worlds.

Previously published in Village Square