Pantoum for the Fourth Trimester

by Stefanie Norlin

Brendan Beale

If we are only flesh and blood, bones and organs, how is my body still here and whole? Earthquakes ripping through my chest My thighs laid out like thick roadways through charred forests.

How is my body still here and whole? I can see my history evolving Stretched skin laid out (a thick roadway through charred forests) where my daughter swam en caul, nestled between my organs.

I can see my history evolving and I try to trace it like an interstate, trace where my daughter swam en caul, nestled between my organs my folds of skin only barely stitched back together.

At night I like to trace her like an interstate and wonder at her own history: translucent skin, a wild scream my folds of skin only barely stitched back together her DNA floating in my blood.

I wonder at her own history: translucent skin, a wild scream She smiles, not yet knowing fear, my DNA floating in her blood, and I feel myself try to smile, too.

My daughter smiles, not seeing my own fear or the earthquakes ripping through my chest and I feel myself try to smile, too. It fills my flesh and blood, bones and organs.

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Stefanie Norlin (she/her) lives and works near Detroit, Michigan, where she enjoys taste-testing different French Fries and watching documentaries. Her writing has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Catapult, Under the Gum Tree and others — learn more at stefanienorlin.com and follow her on X (Twitter) at @stefanienorlin.