Precautions

“It is said that any pregnant woman who is startled by a hare or rabbit is likely to give birth to a child with a hare-lip.”
– Cassell’s Dictionary of Superstitions

First I stopped wine, gin, the sharp tang
of tequila. I stopped coffee. I stopped

swordfish. These were easy. Then I felt
slight movement inside me, light as a leaf,

and I stopped running, lest I jar something loose.
I stopped leaning forward against the sink

as I stroked on mascara. Then I stopped mascara,
so no poison could seep through my lashes.

One day I stumbled over a curb, and that evening
I burned my heeled boots. On my way

to the drugstore for vitamins, the car in front
of me skidded. I braked, swerved, lived,

and drove home. Then I stopped driving.
So many singers wailed never and baby and bleed

that I had to stop listening. I began humming
to fill the air, then felt how vibrations shook me,

and learned silence. On my morning walk,
the horse in the field across the street stared,

and in its white blaze I saw death by lightning.
I stayed home after that. The yard seemed safe

until today, when the sun’s new summer heat
muscled against my body. I imagined a great egg

poaching, so I went in and drew the curtains
for cool. I kept busy disconnecting appliances.

Then I sat still and tall in the center of my bed
until sundown. Now it’s dusk, time of quiet

and colorless light. I’m careful. I crawl to the door,
inch out into the soft, blank air. But I hear the evening

grass rustle near me. Just in time I catch myself
from turning. I wrench my head upward, and see

instead the moon rising. There’s nowhere left to look,
so I blink and blink until its twisted face is perfect.