She looked down the tumult that was her body. And she saw halves.
The right side of her belly was flat,
sucked back as she had pushed the first baby
out into the world.
The left side was a plateau sharp and ascending,
a deuce.
Her skin screamed a purple streak
down the middle, marking the divide.
One more child had yet to arrive in the world.
She declared
strange fortune
and became an old woman.
At seventy she would stare at the skin
sliding
down
her belly
into the pit of her hips.
Through heavy wrinkles the purple scar still split her in two.
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