|
|
Spring annoys me. I like the bones of things. I like core. I like the mechanical engineering of skeleton. I like seeing hinges. I will miss granite branches against lighter skies. I will miss stark. I will miss contrast. Spring annoys me. There is this idea that a woman, especially, relishes spring: fat fronds, stuffed stems, animals building baby nests, afterbirth on barn straw, some much rejoicing. We should ask Eve and Mary how they feel about spring. Spring annoys me. I didn’t ask to be a vessel that plumps up every month. I didn’t ask to be the giver of life, for words like placenta and sac. Spring makes pregnancy, giving birth and becoming a mother into a movie without a her in it. Spring annoys me. There is a woman somewhere in the world this minute; hands lingering inside sudsy sink washing a family of dishes. A she, remembering a body in a bikini with a flat, unused uterus she didn’t realize she even had, then. Spring annoys me. The birds are chirpy. All the flowers are new. The baby is due to be picked up, cradled, carried and cooed. This will be willingly done. This isn’t about love, but it is hard to breathe in such maternal air. We are entwined. We are linked. We are covered. We are grown in. It is true she is still here, underneath all the greenery, but it is also true she is waiting for some things around her to die. |
|
Virginia Watts is the author of poetry and stories found in The Florida Review, The Moon City Review, Palooka Magazine, Streetlight Magazine, Burningwood Literary Journal, Ginosko Literary Journal and others. Winner of the Joan Ramseyer Memorial Poetry Contest, Nominee for Best of the Net 2019 in nonfiction and the recipient of a Pushcart nomination, Virginia resides near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. |
|
