Thursday, January 24, 2013

He must be packing his bags

The night before my mother was induced
I was so active the midwife said she
must be packing her bags.
Would she have used the feminine?
I was nothing yet
no secret windows to peek
through in those days. No peering
down the gleaming bones to see
what secrets were tucked away.
It was all conjecture and old wives tales.

Mother on the bed
midwife with her instruments
city murmuring upwards
to the stars
and me

in the too small room
they’d allocated me
encountering the limits of myself
looking for a way out
of my liquid language

into the place
where words are
hard, cool objects –
sharp as knives,
blunt as stone,
cracked like eggs,
spilt like milk on marble floors.


  1. Really beautiful, Penni. I'm very much enjoying your poems this month.

  2. Anonymous6:32 PM

    Penni, every poem you are writing at the moment is so TRUE. Congratulations on getting your groove back and sharing it. I am appreciating it so much.