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BABIES & BELLIES
Its
late....
the TV is on
muddled voices
in my head
are whispering
get up! get up!
my unborn babies cry
feed me! feed me!
obedient I roll off
the collapsing couch
desperately searching
the refrigerator
cabinets and drawers
whatever I find
disappears quickly
and without taste
the
voices get louder
louder they drown out
the drone of the TV
they are shouting
more! just a little bit more!
but
it's a lie!
it'll never be enough!
and I know it
but I cannot stop
until right before
I explode
it's exquisitely timed
to no longer hear
my unborn babies cry
I
lie back down
bloated and empty
and listen to the TV
rise from the silence
and whisper
my remorse
naked
I glance down
and watch my hands
cradle my belly
my six month pregnant belly
too soft to contain a child
too dead to nurture a child
yet big enough to pretend
years of six months pass
I carry my belly around
swollen and empty
I caress it preserve it
love it hate it
I can never let it go
it's all I have
that is familiar
I
lay by the TV waiting
for my unborn babies to cry
fear and emptiness
sucked them from my womb
yet I still feed them
mothers milk and wheat
and never mourn them
Elaine Mamary is a writer, astrologer and photographer
from Brooklyn. She welcomes your correspondence at
lafutura@aol.com.
Elaine can occasionally be found at the Pink Pony West
on Friday nights, and at other time luxuriating in the
Botanical Gardens.
You can read more of Elaine's work on
Poetz 2001. |