Congratulations

James Tate Emulation Poem

 

I experienced a nightmare last night, and

in the dream I was nine months pregnant

and counting, my stomach bulging like an overstuffed chunk

of meat, I wouldn’t stop bleeding,

the floor kept sticking to my feet like suction cups,

and my breasts were sore at the thought.

“He should be arriving any time now,” the doctor said. “He?”

I said, shifting on gooey feet smeared red.

“The man burrowed in your abdomen,” he said.

I didn’t remember a man entering me, but

maybe that’s the irony of memory, or its saving grace,

all the same I was forced to watch a man split me

open, his face an entanglement of terror and awe and

I couldn’t even scream. Even in my own dream.

“Congratulations!” the doctor said, wiping off the baby’s head,

“You’re a mother.” “I’m not,” I said, and

in the morning my bed was cold and solely my own, my stomach flatter

than paper and just as easily torn. “I’m not,” I said, again

again and again

 

© AvenKain