A gypsy birth

Jump to Comments

She had forgotten what it was like
to push, to bear down while on her back,
to taste blood where you bite your lip,
tp see stars while sweating ahd hearing
shouts that are your own. After the first

her children came easily, slipping
from between her thighs lie fish
from between inter-locked fingers.
Each child was a variation on
the last – brown hair, blue eyes;
blonde hair, blue eyes; blue eyes,
quiet baby; bad attitude, brown
eyes. Each baby carried its own
perfection, but nont of them were the one
she wanted, none of them had
the future in thier eyes – none

of them until the last one. This one
did not come easily, slipping from
between ther thighs like a fish
from between interlocked fingers.

This one was large and round and
hard, smooth against her inside walls
as it cracked her open, the doctor
stared, horrified, at the thing cresting
before him. It streatched and cleared

a path between the real and unreal. It fell
into his hands, blody and warm, and had
no mouth from which to cry. It was full of smoke
and had no eyes to blink wonderously into
it’s mother’s face, so he did not want

to hand it to her, he did not want to give
her the monstrosity she had borne. She shouted
until he handed it to her with no swaddling
blanket, and she gazed at it and saw
the future and past in it’s depths and was content.

3 Comments

Filed under lust and love, poetry, writing