Pregnant. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I’m pregnant,

I say.

You’re a man,

she laughs,

you can’t be pregnant.

I lift my shirt

and expose my rounded

belly.

How do you explain this?

Too much beer and poutine,

she says,   

men can’t get pregnant.

Male seahorses get pregnant,

I say,

so why not male humans?

I’m not having this conversation with you.

Of course you are, I offer,

otherwise I’d just be talking

to myself and that’s crazy.

THAT’S YOUR LINE, she scoffs,

It is okay for men to be pregnant,

but not to talk to themselves.

Well, when you put it that way

you make me sound unreasonable.

Can you rub my feet?

I ask.

They are all swelled up from

the pregnancy.

She is ignoring me.

Now I am talking to myself.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.