Straw Flowers

Straw Flowers
"Straw Flowers" by L. Folk

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Baby A, Baby B, and Baby C

September 27, 2011

Three Blind Moles Attach

Three blind moles attach
to my uterus, their luminescent
heads subtly bob, their bodies
curl and tuck. My silent world
closes on their soft round skulls.
Help. This is the word
choked out, then swallowed. Help.
The sedum, ubiquitous in September,
is pink with nausea, the crab apple tree
has forgotten its fruit, the sky,
wrapped in Lazarus's shrouds, holds
out both arms to Mother Earth
who thrusts open her legs. I retract
from their lovemaking. Slumber is
as thick as weeds.

The small pat, the unleavened bread,
beats in each blind mole,
a tap tap tap telegraph to souls
whose wings darken rooftops
and valleys. I lay this body down
toss out statistics and pitch the head
of Science on a stick.

I must be still. The oracular,
the subtle clink and hush
of reflection, the ruddy-colored bird
with a sideways eye, the stinted bud
with a slice of stitched lip, is among us.

Where is that place of truth and trust, where perception isn't amped up with worry and worst case scenarios? Once again, I feel as if life is happening to me and not with me. I carry the weight of this decision like a ten pound watermelon. It starts to spoil and I smell eggs. Rotten eggs. And then I am depressed. Hopeless. My mind deems no solution. I collapse like a supernova into a black hole. How can I not do that? Where is the door to new thinking? Writing poetry helps because I can express the depths of me and not have them fester. That's step one. But the higher power thing has me conflicted. Catholic guilt and old Catholic mores say I am being tested, or worse, punished. I didn't put my faith in God in this situation, I put it in science and now I must deal with the ramifications. But the Buddha in me says otherwise. There are no mistakes, just life. Make this decision first out of compassion and make it with the awakened heart.
But it's the heart that bothers me the most. Their tiny beating hearts. If they were a conglomeration of cells and only this, I would have no problem having the doctors remove one. But they are no longer just cells; they have that heart and that heart, I believe harkens the soul. I am one for hearts; I can't help it.
The risks of having triplets are numerous. Babies born at two pounds, NICU for weeks, gestational diabetes, not too mention how I will progress to the size of a cement truck. I never wanted three babies, ever. The doctors are anxiously waiting for me to say the word, reduce, and my worries will be instantly lessened. But there is that already beating heart and its holy momentum. Who am I to stand in its way?

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