Pagosa Springs Artists

Birth Pangs

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

is reborn?

 

first published in Teak Roundup

©2007 Bonnie Manion

   

Poem of the Month

  • October - 2019
  • "Rich"