Birth
By: C. Cimmone
The skin is tight and pulled, but not torn. The lump is hard and round and juts out like a pineapple’s rump. There is kneading on the right side; and then the rump turns and disappears. I press around for rounded ends and pointed joints, but the mush is deep as the ocean and bodies are lost following submergence. There is now no sign of living despite the heavy weight of a bowling ball being carried awkwardly. Perhaps the belt holding this weight will come loose and detach the skin with slow rips, but somehow the tendons hold like leather reigns. On the left side is now a fluttering, like you read about in books. A stale lung over works, just as the intestines, all compressed and curious as to how they would ever be plump again. This is the body’s last journey and the aching must be thoroughly documented, well pleasing to me, and caressed by the memory. This is more than I could ever do on my own; more than I thought about when I was young and intact; more than I am worth at the end of my life. They will carry away a limp and loose hinged corpse or they will carry away a red-faced beast screaming for a place in life. Either way, there will be blood.