She told me about being born.
I told her about huffing dust
out of a brown paper bag.
And then the rib.
Where did that come from?
I told her about feeling empty
like someone had gutted out my insides
until I was a glowing state fair display.
And for what,
grime beneath the fingernails?
A blue ribbon?
She told me about having the life
douched out of her.
Hand after hand rinsing out
her body cavity; the pushing,
She told me real vacancy
when you were once occupied.
She told me about holding someone
for nine months
without using her arms.
And then there was the kicking.
It felt like percussion
like Rocky III
She told me the only true comfort and warmth
she ever felt out of her 48 years
was when 6 pounds and 2 ounces
boxed inside her.
I flipped through Genesis chapter 1.
I couldn’t find that kind of humanity in there;
That kind of honesty.
How does dust compare to a womb?
How does seven days of a fathers infatuation
to nine months of a mothers love?
I poured a glass of orange juice
into a measuring cup
and left it on the table.
The pulp was already too thick in my throat.
I just sat there
wanting to perform a reverse exorcism
on her little demon
wishing I could crawl back inside her
so she would never have to feel alone.