The Buddha Rat

History
—Rita Dove

Everything's a metaphor, some wise
guy said, and his woman nodded, wisely.
Why was this such a discovery
to him? Why did history happen
only on the outside?
She'd watched an embryo track an arc
across her swollen belly from the inside
and knew she'd best
think knee, not tumor or burrowing mole, lest
it emerge a monster. Each craving marks
the soul: splashed white upon a temple the dish
of ice cream, coveted, broken in a wink,
or the pickle duplicated just behind the ear. Every wish
will find its symbol, the woman thinks.