Last night I had a baby in my dream,
its feet were webbed together.
My baby’s legs were shaped
like the bottom of a ripe banana.
Fruit flesh is slimy, slipped
entirely, out of me. As if
it were a mistake or something
unexpected. I am trying
to tell you about heaves,
how suddenly
life drops out of me.
The nerve it takes
to shove it
back in.

Sarah Janczak lives in Austin, TX. Her poems have appeared in The Boiler, Colorado Review, Edge, San Pedro River Review, and Tupelo Quarterly.