I have been asked by a few people to post a poem on Facebook. Well, this is as close as I'm going to get. I am still leery about posting pieces on Facebook, especially finished ones, without any sort of copyright whatever. I don't think Blogger has any either, but somehow I feel better about posting here. I should put it in Creative Poems, but I'm too lazy.
This piece was one that I took to workshop, revised, and sent to my advisor for her opinion. The previous title was the only thing she wanted to change from the revision. And so, my little insecure poet self is quite comfortable giving up this very uncharacteristic poem for all to see.
Here's to you, dear reader :)
Every month she comes, arms wrapped tight
across her belly, and asks to curl beside me.
And every time I set aside whatever I am holding
and lay my arm on her shoulder, my fingers
tangled in her hair. I have learned not to ask
how it hurts. Once, she said like a cigarette
burning a wider and wider circle. Once,
like a crushing, burning stone. I don't ask
how she stands the blood anymore, not since
the doctor told us this pain was useless--her body
holds no fruit.
Sometimes, when she lies beside me
long enough to let herself cry, I tell her about
anything. This time, socket wrenches. Hexagonal
bolt heads and silver sockets that fit over, as if
they were made to be together. I tell her there will be
a baby like that, born of the molten fire of a cold womb.
Its hand will fit in ours as if whatever trouble formed it
had tempered and welded its tiny bones
and brought them forth for us.