Image courtesy of happyshopba.com
It’s time.
On cue
my arms outstretched. They hand
you over, pass the pretty, pliant
peach-ripe parcel.
Wrapped in pink
with stone-smooth skin
underneath.
“Congratulations, ma’am.”
Just as we practiced.
You’ve had a bath.
You are not
the creature fished
from the deep, the gelatinous lump
spooned
from my insides, then dropped
like a pebble
on my stomach, bloated,
a violent shade
of purple, slippery
like paste.
You opened your cavernous
mouth, took your first delicious
gulps of disinfected life, and announced
your arrival,
on one
tuneless note.
But now
you smell like apples.
The fog has lifted, and you feel
small.
Small enough to slip
between my schoolgirl fingers, fall
and spring apart. Splitting
like skin.
Handle with care.
Just as we practiced
I pull you closer,
touch your cheek. You stir.
your white oyster
lips puckered, suckling
the air, your eyes,
black, like rocks, narrow
in suspicion.
I freeze
awaiting the cry.
Your eyelids flicker,
you cough,
and ball your fists
in wait.
“She’s beautiful,” I choke.
Right on cue.
The curtain rises.
It’s time.
© 2016 Erin Kavanagh-Hall
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