he schizophrenic is
pregnant.
Her belly is full
of onions, and zombies,
and wild laughter.
Soon it will move,
and dark ideas will
scuttle on insect legs
through her mind,
scratch like small beasts
in the corners, incessantly;
grow larger;
howl for attention.

She's up there talking now,
to God, and Beethoven,
and the thrift-store
ottoman -
asking who the father is;
after Einstein's health;
why she hunts for angels
in the dumpster.

In the dark, two floors
down, her questions hit
with blunt force trauma.
I, too, have questions
for Him, but hold
my ghetto back.
Upstairs, the answers
stringtogether,
mingle,
make imperfect
sense to her and her
paper daisies.