By Lara Haynes Freed

Above and to the left of
where you once flipped and floated,
silent imminent change
promised with each kick—
a bulge, like when you were new,

promise-ripe,
though no pain yet.

CT scans (not sonograms)
reveal its secretive growth,
its indifferent expanse.
Tomorrow is not promised, true—
still pain doubles in the reckoning,

that sudden flood
of expectation.

Lara Haynes Freed is a Pacific Northwest writer with roots in the Midwest. She holds an MA in linguistics from the University of Kansas and studied screenwriting and technical writing at the University of Washington. Interests in psychology, mythology, and subculture inspire her creative work. Her writing has appeared in Months to Years, Paper Dragon, Sleet, and And/Both.