The weave taut across my belly,
my daughter’s approaching birth
pulls the knit up into a cradle.
It’s permanently misshapen,
a sweater or an inappropriate dress.
I bought it to be sexy:
to hug my hips over black tights
and fall short above knee-high Doc Martins,
but now my belly steals the show
like a cardinal in a snowy winter scene.
A DNA strand repeats itself
as cable knit between my breasts,
and yarn tied like birthday bows
dangles from kangaroo pouch pockets.
Silver thread woven into wool
transfigures a nighttime grey—
my anticipation kissed by the Milky Way.