FoundlingReview

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We sleep with limbs straight as cutlery
on an empty plate, fingers slotted tight
as wicker. Insomniac traffic echoes
with someone else's stereo. Sleepless,
I press belly to belly. The slimmest
of mirrors could not fit between us.
Bodies pressed, her swell of child
fits like a socket into the cup
of my hip-bones. Her hair, her slow
breath, her lips. On the rags of my sleep
I feel my baby kick and forget for a moment
the barrier between us.



Kirsty Logan writes, edits, teaches, reviews books, and waits tables in Glasgow, Scotland. She is the co-editor of Fractured West and the reviews editor of PANK. She has a semicolon tattooed on her toe. Get in touch at kirstylogan.com.

 



I've been thinking about babies a lot lately. Before my girlfriend reads this and runs screaming out the door, I should clarify that I don't plan to breed for several years yet. But being a woman in love with a woman, I have thought about the practicalities of making babies. I have considered that I might not be able to conceive, and that my girlfriend may carry our children instead. I have thought about how I would feel if she were pregnant; how I would feel so close to the growing child that it would be as if it were inside my own body. I think that if we raise children together, it will not
matter which one of us actually gave birth: they will be our children.

 





  


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