Hello World by Sarah T. Jewell I separate the darks from the whites, Godlike as I do laundry. There is a genesis in my pelvis. I wonder how God was swollen before He gave birth to the universe. What orifice opened, what bones were bent? If we are made in His image, why do I feel so spent? The app tells me my baby is the size of a lime. That makes me miss margaritas, the tequila, the salt stars... On the ultrasound, the fetus glows, a constellation. I can see his hand. Her hand? A wave is ambiguous as Aloha, it could mean hello or goodbye. Hello, I whisper, and start to cry.