After a molar pregnancy



 

 

Little no-child, wicked womb-fruit,

I grew you in your muscle suit,

My hidden chamber.  There was blood,

cold jelly, sonograms: I understood

what you were not. Imposter,

snow blur on the screen yet faster

than a baby fattening, you crept a boneless nightmare, while I slept,

and gobbled at the pith of me.

You blew my belly to its tympany;

with tissue fistfuls, clustered grapes,

shaped my silhouette- it apes

a fecund one, a waiting mother.

But you are no one, and no other

life is housed here,

doleful mess

of giddy blobs, translucent flesh,

yet still I listen carefully and murmur

nothing to your ghostly human brother.

 

Joanna Pearson