The rack, it weakens me.
I don’t know what hurts the most,
The dark, brown, grume,
Or the inflammation beneath your cave.
It strikes hard, the throbbing knocks,
The sentience of your uninterrupted current,
Escaping the throes of my unworthiness.
Your pabulum interred in the round mounds on my chest
Yearn for your suckle in their every sway.
Yes, the fair mounds itch for your grasping, tender, fingers
Encircling their dark nozzle.
In the passage of the sun and moon, they gain pounds,
And I cradle them in these hands because they are too heavy
To be left unaided in this skimpy satin.
Wired boxes have glided on jelly to search your cave
And your closed cervix reminds me of your absent presence.
Still, you are nowhere to be seen in the burble of my bloat.
But why? Why do you trouble me so, with your kicks and bouts?
Why do you prefer the hard floor to the soft bed of your conception?
The elongated rubber clad tube thrust back and forth, down there
Saw your remains embalmed in clots.
In the hilarity of light,
In the sobriety of darkness,
You slowly and turbulently steam,
Slipping out in clandestine fashion for days and weeks uncertain.
We have searched for you
And you have surreptitiously hidden your form,
Eluding the meticulous eyes and finicky hands of science.
Now I must beg, and I trust you will listen,
For you are an extension of me.
Please uncover yourself.
Do not come out ruddy.
Do not sprout as a bean.
Come out amply and finally in that dark, brown, hue,
Or let the Veteran evacuate your remains.
Go yon, but come back when there is a sparkle on my finger.
© Jennifer N. Mbunabo
IMAGE: Sara via Flickr
It will emerge and suckle after nine moons…