A blustery darkening day snarls around my house,
half-awakening the blinds, millions of autumn leaves
snapping against windows. A temperature drops off
at my doorstep, an unwanted baggage.
The wind moans like a pregnant woman.
I would not be astonished if tomorrow blew by.
She holds her pregnant belly, afraid she’s hatching the moon.
Her breasts are swollen with milk, purple nipples aching,
feeling pinched. I offer to relieve her pain,
and she throws a look like a knife thrower, watch it buddy,
whooshing air. I slink away like the leaves outside,
hoping for a place to hide until the storm blows over.
As her time nears, she thunders a scream, rattling windows,
bones; the neighbors think it’s bloody murder. Crows
screech and fly panicked into each other, creating darkness.
She wants to strangle the doctor who suggests,
that wasn’t so bad now, after all, was it?
Luckily for him, I’d suggested strapping her down first.
She tries to disassemble both of us with a nasty glare.
The wind’s teeth bite at any exposed skin.
An old woman scolds her runaway scarf.
It might be found later, draped around a tree, keeping it warm.
But in the meantime, the scarf bolts, and bolts away
whenever she gets within reach. It’s some kind of keep-away.
She curses the wind like a woman pushing out a baby.
She nips at the wind, gnashing it. Her cussing darkens skies,
the color of crow feathers. I have learned to stay out of it.
I’d offer to help, but she is bitter as the onslaught wind.
Guest Editor’s Note: This poem conveys the uncontrollable power and mystery of natural forces, with the woman in childbirth possessed by and possessing them. The potentially overwhelming emotion of the piece is controlled by the narrator’s mildly ironic voice.
Please welcome Guest Editor Catherine Rogers from April 3-7, 2017.
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