Perhaps an alien with strange taste buds
is growing in my tummy.
Explains why I now puke on sight
of foods that once were yummy.
Perhaps it is a gravity well,
a force that never falters,
dragging me to kneel
before the porcelain altar.
Perhaps it is a rocket ship
searching for new frontiers
that’s launching my insides into
the next-door hemisphere.
Or perhaps it’s just a baby,
dreaming tales of stars and space,
and I’ll know these weeks were worth it
when I first see its precious …
[This poem is on hold while its author races to the restroom.]