I remember how her body pulsed, in its tepidity,
to one day burst with fluid—unwieldy, obscene,
for months her body leaked and reeled;
Doughy feet were folded into tennis shoes.
Hard and tight like a melon, her skin grew translucent—
Candles set behind wax paper; she glowed,
and through her skin was visible a delicate network of veins,
spidery and blue, and no longer just her own.
Indeed the body was a vessel for
her pain (and for her pleasure.) Her navel was a telephone,
as it was rictus, circle, portal, heirloom, hole.
I’ve heard some women eat the placenta of their born.
I’d have served it to her on toast points,
if she’d wished, I’d have served it to her with wine,
because when her body finally fountained and flooded,
some part of me burst, too.
My heart thrummed tremulous and raw,
and fluttered out of me.
I put it back in my mouth, but found I couldn’t swallow,
So I tied it in white string and put it in a paper bag.
It’s sitting on the shelf, now.
Vulnerable; exposed.
You're the reason.
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