Sonnet of the Pregnant Girl

She loved. She was all of herself
in the roaring of her erect breasts.
A gaze up toward the ceiling.
A goodbye to time. She was mine.

We used to scream on a narrow
ridge of eternity and she received
my faultless blood, in her state
as a woman toppled in bed.

But love she did in all her natural
abundance and her mouth exhaled
a fragrance like violets and tuberoses.

And thus I uncovered him, otherwise
asleep on a story, as his breath turned,
a little boy with my brown eyes.