CASEY REILAND

Ilium

My sister asks me if I’m planning to procreate
in a way that suggests I shouldn’t: salty, stinging, heavy—
like the ocean we are floating in. A child
on the shore plays with a baby doll in the sand.
Just the other day, it was 60 degrees
in Antarctica, and I was so angry I wanted
the penguins to trill, Fuck you, and slither
belly down from all us humans
into the sea. The child waves the meaty
plastic arms of the doll, and I haven’t
answered my sister’s question.
My love is optimistic: The earth will change,
but we will acclimate. Others say the opposite:
We will become extinct, and little organisms
will survive and renew under our cells.
There is something hopeful about both theories.
We perennate or become silky wraiths in the soil.
I wonder if I want a baby because it’s what is expected of me,
like the child pressing the doll to her chest,
like how my sister and I would stuff
Cabbage Patch Kids up our shirts, sprawl
on our bedroom carpet, and slide their chunky
bodies from our clothes. Nothing is certain
except life is always making or breaking,
making or breaking. My legs pump
in the water, my pelvis slightly cracking,
and I don’t say that I’m afraid, even though it’s true
my bones will soften when a tiny
cranium crests through my ilium, the pain
surrendering to that punctured cry,
the fury at the world alive in that first breath.

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Casey Reiland’s work has appeared in Autofocus, HAD, trampset, On the Seawall, and elsewhere. She is a recent graduate from the University of Wyoming’s MFA program. She resides in Somerville, MA, and you can find more of her work at caseyreiland.com or her latest musings at @caseyreiland.bsky.social.