She waits in the dark womb
of her bed, carefully cushioned
among her well-fluffed pillows,
hands permanently bent inward now,
thoughts bent backward by her subconscious.
Every third day she awakens to be handfed
affection and meals slipped between long nights
in a void like death, or filled with screaming
protest at imaginings as fearful
as any Hollywood can dream up.
Her body lies silent and somnolent,
curled up, helpless as an infant,
eyes starring ignorantly
past any tangible thing,
intent upon the unknown.
Purged of health, of independence,
of any joy or attachment
to material belongings,
when will the labors of her soul
give way to peace
in the canal of life
as the old childbearer
first published in Teak Roundup
©2007 Bonnie Manion