alien(us)

i hold you until sweat
rolls down my back, at least
an hour; though, mostly you
are asleep, your twitching feet
like my dog’s when she dreams,
and your eyes rolling back
like hers too, little beasts,
but i keep this to myself.

your eyes are gray or blue
or maybe green—no one is
sure yet, but you’ll be the last
to know—and for a moment,
i think i love you, but it’s just
that you’re new and meant to fit
in the crook of everyone’s arm,
your head in the bend of an elbow.

when you won’t latch,
i hold you while your mother
heats a bottle, and you cry
at the emptiness of me, ask why
i have nothing to offer but arms
like the rest, why i don’t proffer
my breasts, incidental flesh, excess
beneath my turtleneck sweater.

Brenna Womer is an experimental prose writer and poet in flux. She's a Visiting Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Louisiana State University and the author of honeypot (Spuyten Duyvil, 2019) and two chapbooks, Atypical Cells of Undetermined Significance (C&R Press, 2018) and cost of living (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming). Her work has appeared in North American Review, Indiana Review, DIAGRAM, The Pinch, and elsewhere. She is a Contributing Editor at Story Magazine and Faculty Advisor for New Delta Review.