My husband fingers the piano
late into the night. Ghostly strains
consume me as I lay in bed,
my hipbones tenting the white sheets,
my chilled fingertips counting
the tilled lines of rib that expand
with frozen breaths; exhalations
pool in my sunken belly.
Milky weight in my breasts:
round, blue-veined fruit, leaking.
Dawn skulks ash-white
through slatted blinds, yawns
across the carpet, sweeps eerily
over the dusty crib.
BIO: Anja Benevento lives in South Carolina with her husband and son where she tutors and drinks lots of tea and writes prose and poetry whenever she can. Her work has been published in Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal, Gamut, Sleet Magazine, MockingHeart Review, The Fiction Pool, and Eunoia Review.