a poem –
is a sickly, shuddering thing that sits heavily in the bottom of my gut;
festering in my womb.
it pulls at the back of my eyelids
murmuring incomprehensibly against the bones of my pelvis.
i stiffen with contractions and feel the teeth of the poem scrape
against the inside of my flesh;
(a bruised landscape)
its limbs have grown large and press into my ribs.
the discomfort is blackening my lips
and the poem shifts.
my body is a fireplace of burning embers
and i feel full of poems, anticipating birth.
they beat their little fists against my gorged belly
desperate for escape.