by Anna B. Sutton
To carry grief in the belly
for nine months—breasts swollen
with milk. To hear a heartbeat
where there is none but
your own, see a blinking presence
in the salt lake of your abdomen.
It won’t be a mystery
to the doctor who slices
a smile across your lap, tells you
about a dog nursing a row
of stones. Nature plants its ghosts
inside us sometimes.
About Anna B. Sutton
Anna B. Sutton’s work has appeared in Indiana Review, Third Coast, Copper Nickel, Booth, Los Angeles Review, and other journals. She received her MFA from University of North Carolina Wilmington and a James Merrill fellowship from Vermont Studio Center. She is a co-founder of the Porch Writers’ Collective and has worked for numerous literary organizations, including Humanities Tennessee, Lookout Books, Blair Publisher, Gigantic Sequins, One Pause Poetry, Dialogist, and Ecotone. Her debut collection, Savage Flower, won the St. Lawrence First Book Prize and will be published by Black Lawrence Press in 2021.