At the wedding reception she attends,
she knows. People mill around
the apple orchard, touch
fruit ripe with summer sun,
the moon a pregnant
pearl hugging treetops.
All she keeps thinking is
pleasedon’tbleedpleasedon’tbleed.
Light blue gauzy dress
exchanged for an ugly
black skirt. Biker shorts underneath.
Enough padding to double her size.
Back home, she heads to the doctor.
It’s time, he says. You’re done having kids.
Why would you need it?
He claims her whole life will be better,
downsized to essentials. She imagines
an apple orchard stripped bare.
Galas on the ground:
their bruises, their winey rot.
On the ride to the hospital—
the moon a silver scythe.
The lights in the operating room:
honeycombed, wide-eyed, unblinking,
each one highlighting her uncertainty.
She wakes up an apple, cored;
looks outside, sees they’ve hung
the moon crooked.
–
Jennifer Randall Hotz’s work has appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, Naugatuck River Review, Connecticut River Review, Literary Mama, and SLANT, among other publications. She won 1st place in poetry for the Virginia Writers Club 2023 Golden Nib Awards and was nominated for a 2024 Pushcart Prize.