I’m rare,
calcified by my mother’s body
like a foreign object.
Pink toe, strawberry heart,
fontanelle head, all hard as stone.
The first trimester
brings home the realisation
that I’ll never be kissed
or coddled or hugged.
In fact, I’ll be lucky to be found at all.
Who knows,
I might have liked a stuffed elephant
or vanilla ice-cream.
Even tears.
Anything called life.