Cat (linguafranca) wrote in bad_lyrics,

  • Mood:

Stone baby

A poem about a lithopedion:

I’m sixty. A widow.
How is this possible?

This pain is not appendix
or gallstones but a baby.
It died soon after conception, they say.

I picture it smooth and pink,
embryo rocked in its fluid.
There is no fluid, the doctor says.

They want to remove it.
They offer me tea.
The procedure, they tell me, is easy.

Suddenly, I’m worse than a tigress.
This piece of grit,
bedded down in my lining
thirty odd years, is staying.

It will cause discomfort, they say.
It does, already.
But when I go home,
unlock the door,
step into the hall,
the house has stopped being empty.

From here.
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