Friday, September 08, 2006

Two poems about the same time in my life

High Risk Pregnancy

Goodbye cannot be divided
by the square root of ginger
with potato chips or was it coke?
This recommendation courtesy the nutritionist
during my pregnancy with quads.
Her office was tandem to her bedroom. Never,

never accuse me of intoxication, decapitation,
or lack of masturbation. I do not exaggerate.
I won't touch ginger anymore. It is the vertigo
of nausea and the color of wet puke. Aspiration
takes on its fourth definition
and the therapist recommends I plant two trees.
She doesn't know me.
I never stay in one place long enough for trees.
What were their sexes? If you follow,
I hang my head.


My whippet’s white needle hairs stick up
from the Smithsonian Bible replica quilt.
I’m a large lump
under the story of Adam and Eve,
a faulty incubator whose cervix has been labeled:
I flip channels on trashy talk shows
and video clips of OJ’s white van
avoiding the inevitable. I
drink water and spill some.


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