He detonates at 5 a.m.
The sound is unmistakable:
first flesh, then second thoughts.
The windows rattle as we two women do in aftershock.
Bolt upright from the floor, you mutter, Bismillah.
I shudder, Shit, and grab my swelling belly.
Usually, the head survives intact, a hand in a tree.
By 6 a.m. we quit Jalalabad.
I apologize and disregard
your cold, coal eyes when I reach for the backseat's only belt.
Prairie Schooner Winter 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Eliza Griswold
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission