Upon waking, she cuts her eyes to the looking glass
to gaze upon her self-reflection.
The lass stares back at her—
the changeling in utero,
a petrified baby girl
with her snatchlet of hair and single tooth,
lies so wee and still in her fetality.
The unknown lithopedion calcifies
into intricate stonework,
and the heart of the lass
on the living side of the glass.
She is the mummy of the mummified.
Her body is a little one’s coffin,
the lub-dubs of her heart bleating a lullabye,
the ribcage a home for the little bird
who has no voice or personhood.
Her hollow womb is an empty tomb,
from which no thing will rise or rush,
or rapidly form.
She lifts the frame off the hallway wall,
only to see (through) it was a transparency—
a capturing of herself in that last month
before the water and the blood,
from her wounded body which flowed—
the afterbirth of instant baptism.
*a lithopedion is rare, medical phenomenon in which an unborn child dies during gestation, and calcifies within the mother’s body.