Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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Brook Emery

Time flies

Time flies. One day you show me a tiny bump,
the next a baby girl. And the short months in between?
All that secret growing time, the emerging
sense of fingers, toes, a slightly squirming body
taking up expanding space, contracting once again
to that secure foetal shape, unknowingly becoming self
though intimately and perhaps forever you, no matter
the sudden gap between two belly-button whorls.
The memory’s fresh and bodily, an emptiness
that’s full, a universe within a universe within,
well, within all space and time, one miracle
of matter’s transformation, an explorer’s notch
that lets you plot before and after, set your compass
for a future that’s been shifted just so much by birth.