Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Afterbirth

Told she would die of
this lump growing in
side her--
go karmic
go spirit
go angels singing
from the realms of glory
--
she buys a low
cut red shimmy shammy dress,
seduces the Jamaican lawn boy,
mails her husband's mistress
faked records;

Mr Jonas: herpes advanced stage!!
Oh, so official.

She withdraws their savings in ten
dollar bills, spends weeks
hiding each bill separately
in the gardenias
the A/c duct
under the carpets
inside every bra, dress, shoe and book
she still owns.

The lump,
this lump, now
her baby
come full term,
implodes,
a whoooooosh
of after
birth taking her with it,
feet first, flying
away from this strict
overplushed house
away from her faux-porcelain
mouthed husband,
only
that wrinkled
hand-clenched
desparate red dress
marking her shrunken
sad space on the bed.

4 comments:

Geoff said...

Pris, I just don't know where you get these wild, ramshackle, wonderful poems from! This one is held aloft by those balloon-powered words of yours, staying aloft somehow, so funny - until the end, when you prick the balloons and let the reader down with a bump right at the end.
Sheer magic.

Pris said...

hi g
thanks for commenting. a friend of mine says i just have a weird mind. maybe that's the best explanation??

i always appreciate the time you take.

Michael Parker said...

Hi Pris! I'm back. This is an exceptional poem! Geoff is right on in his comments.

Pris said...

Hi Michael
I'd been thinking about you and wondering how/where you were. Welcome back! Thanks forthe comment.