Womb/Seed/Fruit by Donna Vorreyer
Crying, she cradles the phone against
her neck. Her face betrays the news.
She knows I can provide what others
cannot–empathy, comfort again and
again as the mark of blood shows failure.
Six months later, the faculty meeting
endless, I sneak a glimpse at her growing
belly, firm roundness bursting like an olive
from beneath her green blouse, one hand
poised just above her pimiento of a navel.
My own hand traces the convex curve
of my abdomen, its aging plumpness
comforting, without portent, reminder
that the son I mother ripened on another
branch. She and I have traveled here by
separate roads, pushed our way through
underbrush, pricked our skin on nettles
and thorns. Mothers both, we stand in
the garden, understand what it means to
feed, to bear, to pluck the sweetest fruit.
I live and write in the Chicago area where I drink lots of Diet Coke and spend my days trying to convince teenagers that words matter. My poems have appeared in many journals including New York Quarterly, Boxcar Poetry Review, Flashquake and The Hiss Quarterly. Website: http://djvorreyer.googlepages.com/
