This is the result of some ideas I've been kicking around--highly personal ones, but not sure if they fully work yet. This is a very early draft. I want to thank ObscureB and Margot for some invaluable pre-posting comments. Any feedback is appreciated. Thank you.
Premature
The Birthing was like bloating
from that extra slice of cheesecake.
Nothing expansive:
the rack of lamb, red potatoes
of normal mothers with smiles,
not pained closed zippers.
It was like a gallstone,
a boring sting with no reward,
to be forgotten
not spoken above whispers.
It was astonishing
that this tinyredwrinkled thing could
breathe its wet wheezes.
No bigger than one of those asthmatic handbag
dogs, silent judges
and mocking,
pretty, pale blue bows.
There would be no cigars, handshakes,
glad slaps on shoulders.
The room filled with embarrassed grins,
vague apologies,
like sitting constipated
in a public bathroom stall
listening for each quick rattle,
each agitated
successive
Bang!
As patrons come and go.
It lingered afterwards
like a bad meal in a greasy spoon.
You paid, and paid, and paid,
too sickened to eat, too guilty to leave
the Styrofoam box behind--
The damning evidence
of leftovers
unwanted, undigested.
2007-09-02
14:45:14
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12 answers
·
asked by
Todd
7
in
Poetry