Motes Made By Garden Hoses

You would comment on that,
wouldn't you?
My garish c-section scar
still agape and splintering
with puckered and raw flesh.
You point out my stretched
skin through your breath,
still stinking of onion, cigarettes,
and our whore neighbor.
Don't think I don't know
she looks at you, eyes half
shut with the shushing,
boney fingers of lust.

He's yours,
our baby boy.
I know you wish she carried him.
I'm sorry.