Full in the fat wallow of me, Superfluity Even to the marrow— Blood plumping along in a red swell Of venules Blushing my most unabashed Skinpatches: nosetip, earlobe, wristshallow. O This mother Is a crush of too-muchness, A malady of my baffled self awash. Accomplished Finally the days, will I find My bones I lost, will my sharps and edges Hedge this fleshy Habit I’ve made of excess? Already my heartracing startles In another’s Twitches, my dinner hiccups Another’s diaphragm. Already and almost I swear I feel The protein creep of me, cell By splitting cell, into another’s life. This mother-grief Sorrows not for the heart-close one I’ll lose from me at my delivery But for my own Soul overboiling, unbound, bound To a stranger’s groans, undone by his hurts And remorses To the third and fourth Generations. What I’m birthing is my own Diffusion. Never again mere. Never again my own. Copyright © 2015 by Kimberly Johnson. Used with permission of the author. |
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