she was twelve seconds
from an abortion
and they bathe her in a shroud of blood
gums hang from her jowls
twitching with deep regret in a lounge chair
the dish towel clings to her thighs
like an infectious disease
which could take on water
but not change
the floor scrubs its texture
and the rattle in pink lungs makes a
fast knocking sound
she tirelessly drags her feet
to impart a sense of motivation
light in the room does not
reflect pigments off her skin
discontinued from use
and arched underneath curtains
piles of laundry twist across the room
as strands of lint play
with a breeze from outside
if she had just been the victim
like a famous person
or some maniac devoid of verse
people might not have come into her house
to take each child
that had survived the sexual desire
of a past husbands cock
dryness stuck to her breasts like starch
hardening on ruined nipples
still in wait for a touch that lingered
or at least wasn't flush
with bites or amniotic fluid
sweaty flesh hangs off her body
a tissue that decreases feminine hygiene
to a common slouch
the wall was an almond shade
covered with photographs
from the family line
and it all fell into place like
a breakfast buffet
the fruit in one image was her
grandmothers wrist
and the table leg in another
was her cousins earlobe
indeed life made human ties rich
but some came only
to the open of an envelope
with a carousel of faces that stop
long enough to see them leave
a lot of times she just laid
in the street
in the pungent odor of cabs
fixed in a terror of tampons
birth control
and dishes
if one thing stayed intact
it was the dead part
weening off a tit that threw up
instead of milked
behind torn underwear streaked with blood
she wonders if her baby
would have rotted in the womb
kissing the inside of its confinement
only to count the hours
her hands tremble on the edge of kitchen sink
as the spirit of a new birth
drowns in water
her elbows are fashioned with liver spots
certain areas of her face are soiled with pits
and bashed flat cheekbones
the mirror displays fished over limbs
seemingly thrown from the side of a boat
connected by mistake
some might call the way she looks
a configuration of old tramp and monster
met in the middle
she knew misery could be bought in
bronze alcohol filled containers
a dark veil on her back
with its tide of messy fetus trails
plastic babies flash in her cabinets
on a haunted skin ridge
that could deplete or make her ill
she may not get to doctor the room with air
before the white coats descend
carrying off her legs
her arms
her hairy pussy
she stands for a moment
to look back on one of their little nameless heads
sewer flushed
possibly bound somewhere in the drain
and she knows if each had a plot
it would look like homicide
the most wondrous thing left was damage
but if that absolved
the last bruise would display her stretch marks
she might peel
photographs would be eaten
and no one could do anything otherwise
she looks down once
while the weight of a tremble
ravages her stomach
so soft
and filled with unborn screams
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
it kind of sounds like regretful, i dont know why. 
- and I don't mean you are.. just it can be seen that way...
