Ann Z. Lombardi

My girl’s got Turner’s, but she’s spinning just fine. Shows up on the scan like a small planet, wrapped in hazy weather. Light pooling beneath her skin, a halo around her like the milky way. A neutron star tucked at the base of her skull, dense and impossible to look away from. The tech says nothing, but I see her. See her glowing on the screen. “One X,” the docs say. Like it’s less. It’s not. She’s already making orbits in my body. They see fetal hydrops. I see constellations and celestial matter. They see thickened nuchal translucency. I see a nebula, a pillow of stardust cushioning her head. They say she won’t be. I say she already is. Cradled light. Tethered to me, bending my love toward her like gravity. My girl won’t stay. I know that. But while she’s here, she floats, she shines. She moves in me slow and strange and radiant. Caught in her pull, I am already rearranged. …