Maybe you’re not the featherweight champ of all the cutthroat combat sports (fifteen and pregnant again) but you’d convert your ring corner into a slaughterhouse before you’d inquire after human kindness. In the humdrum flare outside the clinic you wait for a ride, feel the spill at the tipping point trickle down your inner thigh as you bask in the post-industrial particulate on your skin, ash into a jasmine pot’s bituminous anchorage so tacky it glows in a habitat that spent your body long before it finished growing. Lynn! they lied to you don’t you know? Your womb will be the first thing to heal. What you smell is pleasure, not the rot of the thing amid the waste. You will have babies. You will write poems about flowers that turn on in darkness. Copyright © 2016 Lynn Melnick. Used with permission of the author. |
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