Rebecca Cook
This Poem About Scars
It waits for me--
to open
to give it birth.
I do not want this particular child
Inside me, it is already a disappointment.
It leaves dishes under the bed,
food on the floor,
takes water into the wrong places.
It is clumsy, deficient.
I will kick it when it walks by.
I will hide it from the neighbors.
I will dress it in rags and call it “goddamn.”
Still it grows,
stirring, waving transparent fingers.
I press my belly to the wall
to squash it--
it squirms, it smothers,
it breathes again.
I feed my body chemicals,
poison, dangerous powders
but it has already learned to evade me.
I am ripe to bursting,
engorged, sweaty.
When it comes out,
I must catch it.
I must keep it quiet.
I will hide it under my tongue.
I will hold it there.
I will never swallow.
