Porcelain - Poem

On some days I have seen the women with bellies swelled
And bare hands
 clutching blankets their own mothers gave them,

As they left to walk beneath a wall of twisted trees. 


A march of one body carrying another, as they do not stop to sit
By the water, 
or by the flowers when they pass.
Their footprints tremble behind them.

There is a cabin in the woods where rusted scissors sit by the window
Telling old and terrible stories, as one rocking chair never creaks
But breaks in certain places, so little planks of wood lay across the floor.
Only the claw-foot tub is ever clean.



It is here that women,
 gripping that porcelain hard enough
To make it moan, become raw and scream.




Later holding baby’s fingers to their lips, weeping all the while.

Tears, blood 
and water - the drain takes it all.



A bluejay lives by the chimney. Often, one hand around their bundle

And one hand pressed upon the glass, 
the women softly say,
“Sing us a song.” 

But the bluejay is always silent
, though he pecks the walls,
And he pecks the door,
Pecks! Pecks! Pecks!
All the while.

In this time that moves too fast yet slow, if only they could catch the hours,
The babies stop crying.
 Mothers hold them to their chests as that desperation
Comes 
like an unwelcome guest through the unlocked door,
And lays its hand on their shaking chests, smiling a bitter smile.



There is a cabin in the woods where mothers leave when they have slowly,

As if the weightless bundles in their arms
Were then the most delicate flowers,

Placed little blankets of white,
 blue and pink
Gently under the misshapen stone floor.

They make their way with a march of aching bodies
And will their minds to turn away from where they have been, and what has been done.
And sometimes then the bluejay sings,

A song most shrill and sharp.