On Noble Pregnancy.

A birth story of the combined births of our four children. 

These are my memories

You are as kind to me

As the taste of a lollypop

My heavy belly drags my soul

 To the dropping ground

And you fold your arms under and lighten me up

So it’s just my body, just my body as

 You hold our child, still

In my belly, in your arms

And relieve me of my load momentarily

A human belly harness swing

You and water can make this happen

Weightless bobbing mimosa bliss

Now my center of weight has shifted

And I stumble when I try to be nimble and seek

To hold solid

As I accustom myself to my front bubble blossoming

I’m reacquainted with my elegance and presence of being

My hair is thick and my skin is plump

I am beautiful and magnificent

A beacon and the world sees it

I belong to you belong to me in our obvious

Coitus back-projection:

‘I know what you two have been doing’-ness

Right now I want to be owned by and linked to you

Like an ape. I want to stay close to your scent

My body understands this even when I don’t

Increasing mammalian underscoring in my actions

Right up until go time I am still ego driven ultimately

In control. But that drops away incrementally

As the Braxton Hicks morph into the real McCoy

Everything is ocean, waves, liquid

Waves of pain, waves of consciousness

Interspersed with waves of self affirmations

Waves of your voice

Do those noises come from me? In waves.

I observe the irresistible, wonderful animal

Urge to push, it is orgasmic and enticing

And I’m not allowed to do it.

The wave of words from the attendees:

“stop pushing right now”

My animal self says:

“I have to push; you must let me push”

I want that orgasm I want that satisfaction

There is no other thing my body must do

Right now, but push.

Drag my superego kicking and screaming back to the

Forefront of my consciousness and abstain

From that sweet push

Gulping in breathy waves

Side coaching ape husband smelling beautiful

Pheromones like channel
No. 5

Acknowledging me and my hard work

Waves of gratitude to my partner in crime

“I love you,” I say

“push” I’m told by the other attending ape

Sweet mother of Christ I push

Waves of push, painful focused pushing

Waves of human descending, flowing

Out of me. This is somebody's normal

Somebody's job, somebody's everyday

This miraculous normality.

Our baby arrives in three waves,

Surfing on the saline, hanging ten

My arms, my face salty

I hold beauty; crumpled, delicate beauty

Then some bustle

Quickly making the bed of decorum

Tucking in the tendrils of primitive

And overlaying my bedspread of ego

Neatly arranged as the nurses clean away the

Evidence of fluid, saline primordial soup

A little spritz of essential oils in the room

And we the suburban family

Sit up and smile. 

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will be nicer. 
I will say the nice things. 
I will see you, really see you. 
I will do the stuff that bores me so I can please you. 
I will smile and hold your hand, 
even though I want to swing my arms freely in the breeze. 

Tomorrow we will sit under a tree, 
in the sun, and scoff cake and imbibe sticky drinks. 
And I will admire the sun in your hair; 
your curls so golden and soft. 

Tomorrow I will understand 
that tomorrow needs to be Exquisite. 
Needs to be today.

Hong Kong 1987

Hong Kong 1987

Hong Kong neons swing low over the roads

With solid air saturated,

Which must be sucked hard through the nostrils

And processed by the lungs like syrup in a pancake

I am an alien in an alien land.

They grow the alley cats small and fast

Cartier watches are cheap from the footpath

Women ask my boyfriend for a fuck

Right in front of me.

He declines.

The bread is made of lard and flour…that’s not right.

We hop on a junk with an unfriendly boatman

And are mesmerized as we float, as much by the squalid beauty

As by the murderous gazes coming from the locals

And the pungent stink of piles of drying fish hoiked out of the

Rancid waters full or runoff from factories.

Men, cool looking, in suits skip stairs by twos to catch a ferry

Off to business, whilst we the tourists sit exhausted in singlets

And shorts, rendered moronic by the heat

Uncomprehending at

Their ability to be dry and neat and lithe.

My boyfriend was born here

On the Island

He lived at the Hilton. There are photos

Of his mother in a bikini and sunglasses by the

Hilton pool with her young, first child

He is small and plump and white

He had a nanny and a cook and his mother

Sometimes wanted to throw him out of the window

When she got upset with his crying she said

But she didn’t.

She threw mix masters at the ceiling instead, 
He said.