That red jumper and black shirt were a combo that punched be right in the gut,
I could see the little flashing sign above my head,
Mortal Combat-style.
Today the bruise is still there,
whenever I run my hands through your
soft, red hair
That was on my stomach,
and my uterus is just below
– it’s waiting, as it has been taught to
for you to make me
expand into
a balloon body
– with a child waiting at the
other side.
Pop!
But what if I prefer
the tapping of a
typewriter,
keyboard,
midnight rush
of writing
at candlelight,
the labels,
the thoughts,
the pen-marks
I can’t write on a baby?
I can’t write all over
its cute face?
I wouldn’t want to erase
either of these narratives
– but perhaps, for you
I might have to.
I love this – an age old dilemma for women, described in a very current way.
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Thank you very much for summarizing my poem so well! I’m glad you enjoyed it 🙂
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Ha ha – sorry, the teacher in me never lets go. I did enjoy it.
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