Seventeen years old;

I am afraid to go home and they know.

Small blue cross, white stick, pale scent of piss,

hidden under coffee grounds

in the bin under the sink.

Two months in, afraid of the egg

in my womb. Still thought it was a girl.

still named it. Still stroked my flat stomach

as the shower turned lukewarm.

Still played Cat Stevens with an earbud

against my belly. Still wrote poems for it.

Knew it shouldn’t be mine, knew

it would have to be taken out like an aztec heart,

held towards the sun-god, torn from my blue cord.

But september came first, burning red,

and brought a bed of blood;

leaving me to lock my bedroom door,

pouring peroxide over the mattress,

washing new life from my skin

and my lilac nightgown,

throwing the clotting sheets away

in the neighbor’s trash.

PoetryEnna S.Comment