his head resting
on the cushion of her belly.
She thinks of racing, how speed
had calmed her the night she believed
she was pregnant, the road a black snake
under her Jetta. She arrived
home early, didn't tell him she was late,
and swallowed her secret with a glass of wine
the color of blood. It sounds like the swarm
he says. It is,
she says, and imagines the net
of insects thrown over her body,
her stomach swollen from just one sting.