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“You’ll never be lonely again.” 

“It’s the closest a woman comes to death.”
Electric ripples along the spine, legs akimbo; only visual 
two peaks, knees. Head like a rag doll, floppy and damp, 
seething pain, the belly like a drum.

A truth drug, the urge to push, 
to rip flesh like bread. A grey, skinned 
rabbit with an old man’s face appears. 
A slap, a cry, a life.

Live images fed on a reel over and over.
In the traffic light strobes, his arms propel, windmill style. 
Bareback, no street lights, no seat belt rider 
dives into the tunnel; later a missed, period.

Feet like puddings, carrying heavy load 
trip over stack of well-thumbed, 
size of a fist at x weeks, breast feeding baby books, 
even the best laid plans, ain’t happening, to me. To me.

The air shoves its long arm down 
my throat and pushes out ’Mama’.

Updated: 08/09/2006

Sheree image © Sheree Mack. Text and images © Sheree Mack 2004