A pregnancy is something wished for. A half moon is what one becomes. Tools to use on the journey: thermometer, preferably the sort with an extra decibel; an instrument for writing, maybe in the sand; a chart, which you can find crumpled in a garbage bin. Flatten, try again. Measure yourself in the mornings, before your hips have swung, feet spread. You should find equilibrium in the sun-tones.
In 1598, John Florio spent time with ink and quill, tapping housecat with nib; declared pregnancy greatnes with child, pregnancie, a being great with childe or with yoong. There was crooning, toms at the door. The housecat was nibbled. Nibbled back.
My mother told me I was an easy pregnancy. She never threw up, and though she only menstruated once or twice a year (she had polycystic ovaries too), she found me inside on the first try. Whose body is it? Acquiring my sister took three or four cycles, medicine bottle collection. My sister pinched at my mother’s insides. She had been ready to give up, how long it was taking. Her legs don’t show as much. Mine are covered in stretch stains.
Suppose we all could feel a pregnancy simultaneously. Suppose my stomach were made of clear glass, a fish-bowl. I can hear it: you are wishing too. I would dictate the swish, that minnow-flick, know it: you’re hiding.