April 3 ’10: Splintered Stalk
April 3, 2010 § 7 Comments
The feel of his hand on her foot was
startling and sweet, like the scent of coconut
on a winter day. How it came to be there she discovered
later, after it was over. But in
that moment, all she knew was its essence: the roughness
of his palm, the warmth that flowed up her
cramping leg, the weight that held her down and
supported her at the same time.
The voice from the head near her foot purred and growled.
She couldn’t understand the words; they too flowed
up her leg and through
the gap in her womb, to the child inside her.
After the baby came (bursting, pushing, crowning,
fierce as its heritage), and she lay damp
and forgotten on the pavement, she missed his weight.
She reached out, and he placed a rough bundle into her arms.
And as the siren screamed (was it for her?), she longed
for his hand again.