I remember the first blood of her,
The implant blood they call it.
It was possible I was pregnant,
We had laughed about it in Malta a few days and half a world away ago,
Sitting on our private balcony in a walled city,
Drinking a bottle of wine as a cart pulled by a horse strolled by.
We’ll call her Xara, we said, for the hotel built into the battlements where she was conceived.
The strength of old stone and softness of embossed butter at breakfast were a foretelling
Of the child that was now in my womb,
Nestling into place with a pinprick of bright, vibrant red.
