A short narrative of breasts and wombs in service of Plot entitled
Liv lying on the floor looking at
The Dirty Thought
[The womb similar to fruit that goes uneaten will grow gray fur, the
breasts a dying rose, darkening nipples, prickling sickness as it moves
toward mold, a spongy moss as metaphor for illness.]
Liv, answer me this: Is the female anatomically in need of a child as a
life preserver, a hand, a hand up? And now, and now do you want
harder the family you fear in fear of all those answers?
Could you put fear there as having to do with the price of milk, as having
to do with prudence? To your health. Cheers. Or against the aging
body unused, which way does punishment go?
“Let us not negotiate out of fear . . . ” butbutbut . . . Then the wind
touched the opened subject until Liv finding herself in light winds,
squalls, was without a place to put her ladder.
From the treetop something fell, a bundle, a newspaper, a bug, a bag,
still nobody’s baby. The sound was desperation dropped down, a
falling into place, and not way away—
Statistics show: One in what? One in every what? A child in every pot
will help the body grow? No matter, all the minutes will still slip into
the first then the ashes will shiver.
Liv, is the graffitied mind sprained? Who sprayed an answer there?
Which cancer? What dirtied up intention? No matter. Anyway, which
way does your ladder go?
Toward? Or away in keeping with that ant crawling on your ankle? Oh
mindless hand, rub hard. Not quite in pain because pain is shorthand
for what? One in every what? Cradle all.
Or kiss it up without facing yourself. Knowing the issue, Liv slouches,
her chin resting on her folded hands. She thinks: blunt impact, injury.
She tosses a but against the wall,
she tosses: boom. boom.