Thursday, January 25, 2007

The culmination of the pregnancy
was something she thought
best described as
popping a giant zit.
That which had produced the swelling
prior to the popping
was deemed unsightly.
An embarrassing blemish.
That delivered to her crotch
some nine months earlier:
nothing more than…

Is it important to know her
state of mind at that exact moment of
No. Not really.
That which is irrelevant before the act
is just as irrelevant after.
All you need know is that she
is incapable of love.

And so, this excrement comes to lie
in someone else’s hands.
An easy afterthought,
were it not for the fact it exists…
there at the end
of an umbilical.

Just what the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Are you trying to imply that
it has something to do with motherhood?
Nah. Nah.
Nothing more than an inconvenient tether.
Fuck that shit!

And there at the end of an umbilical,
some bacterial life-form
cries out for sustenance.
A sustenance beyond the mere
gratification of nipple.
A sustenance of embrace.
To be enfolded into another’s arms.
Held beating heart
to beating heart.
The desire for an assortment of qualities
gathered under the heading of
what it means to be
a mother.

That which exists at the far end
of the umbilical
has a double X designate.
Chromosome string,
gene to gene,
they are one in the same female.
So very, very alike.

And yet… And yet…
That one which yearns
for nothing more than her mother’s touch,
is seen by the other as… what?
Diseased doppel-ganger?
Nine months of festering tumor,
now on the verge of being lanced.

On one end of the umbilical
is a life-form that once knew love
but now sees only an object of hate.
There on the umbilical opposite,
is that which knows
neither love,
nor hate.
She is a blank slate
in need of… What?
Does it come down to
There at the end of the cord,
a mouth opens and closes,
and with each transition,
the only emotion
it can possibly know
is expressly conveyed.
“Sustain me.
Sustain me.”

And yet… And yet…
The umbilical is severed,
and every external remnant
of mother/daughter
is cleansed away.
Two hands raise, lift, and lower—
mother’s womb
to sterile incubator.

“Sustain me.
Sustain me.”
And there in her mouth she finds it.
Love. Love.
Love is a dummy; a binky.
Love is a pacifier; a rubber nipple.
Love is right there at hand.
Right up until that very moment
when even your thumb
is denied you.
When even the love of you…
is brutally
taken away.

©06 Jack Hubbell

No comments: