Everything’s a metaphor, some wise
guy said, and his woman nodded,

Why was this such a discovery
to him? Why did history happen
only on the outside?

She’d watched an embryo track
an arc across her swollen belly from
the inside and knew she’d best
think knee, not tumor or burrowing mole,
lest it emerge a monster.

Each craving marks the soul:
splashed white upon a temple the dish
of ice cream, coveted, broken
in a wink, or the pickle duplicated
just behind the ear.

Every wish will find its symbol,
the woman thinks.

Written by Rita Dove

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