I like a man whose body is a question mark —

a thousand answers wait inside my swollen belly.

I like a man whose body opens like a pair of brackets —

my swollen belly ready to fill the blank inside his brood pouch.

I like a man who can hold a complex syntax —

the full stops of my eggs find his wriggly commas,

embed into his womb, make him a man 

whose belly swells more than mine ever could.

I watch while he delivers our young.

Their gorgeous semicolon-shapes scrawl the current 

like hundreds of little hinges in the sentence of our love, 

saying, we are this; also this; 

these; that; 

this too; those;