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.]

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