It’s all hip bones and pelvis in front of me. Of course it’s a butterfly, a jesus face, two eels skulking out of black coral, but then they come: twin fetuses curling into one another. One still-wet spot connects them like halves. My darling fat accidents. My little globs of ink and psyche. Big fat jagged holes shine bright where their hearts should be. I cannot see their eyes but I know they are watching as I turn the page to the left. I cannot unsee them— these tiny chubby half-moons. But now their fat heads are where their soft bellies should be and surely they know I’ve stolen them right from the bottle, right from the pages of someone else’s book. And now just what do I do with them? Do I keep them folded in my pocket? Recycle them in the big blue bins? Do I name them Josiah and Ana? I wonder at them, search them, those perfect kidney beans, my conjoined carnival sideshow, maybe I see the soft bulb of my own nose in their inky presence… I trace their jelly spines and fingers softly reaching out and away to the edge—it cuts so thin they’d never see it & when I move to the center of the page again, they’re gone. They’ve betrayed me. They’re as meaningless as a bad birthday card, a picture of someone’s cat. A stain on a shirt you never wanted anyway.

 


 

Natasha Murdock lives in Gilbert, AZ with her tiny family and bicycle. Sometimes she secretly wishes she was Harry Potter but mostly she just writes poems. Her poems have been published in So to Speak, Up & Under, and an underground hand-made zine you’ve probably never heard of. Also she probably has a trick up her sleeve.

To read more prose poetry exploring psychoanalytic pregnancies (including another piece from Natasha featuring a song from the Pretenders and ambivalent refrain), order Four Chambers 01 here.