Because I’m not pregnant I walk to the hotel bar
to buy a jar of beer. I have the bartender mix ale
with stout. All day I’ve watched the lining
of my uterus congeal in the toilet like globed fruit.
The bartender is young. The tattoo on his forearm
tells me he is the Leo son I’ll never have.
Back in my room the beer leaves bubbles
on the side of my glass. They pop, the eggs I’ve lost.
My daughter plays with bunnies. They hit each other.
My nephew wants to eat an entire game hen
for dinner. What kind of tradition is this?
Me drinking alone, my daughter’s toy bunnies crying.
At least if I was to bleed, I am bleeding, because knowing
is better than not knowing and beer is better than no beer.
Rachel Mehl has published poems in Alaska Quarterly Review, LA Review, Portland Review, Poet Lore, and Willow Springs among others. She has an MFA in poetry from the University of Oregon and lives in Bellingham WA.