Clotting Motherhood (a poem for The Poetry Archive Now! WordView 2022 Entry)

I should have been uploaded the right one, but I eff'ed up. In the process of searching for the right file to click to upload, the name was obscured and I accidentally picked the one I named too similar to the final version and that one with the mistake was chosen.

I submitted my poem to a small archive online last year. But as soon as I uploaded the video reading of it, I realised too late my mistake. I cursed my stupid computer and I still blame myself for not naming it more obviously 'the correct one'.  

The poetry archive group is a small organisation which I understand would explain why they could never reply me when I asked for the 'small' favour to allow me to send them the right one to re-upload it for me.

Meanwhile, I must live it--with the wrong version on their site, which irks me, but while I can't really do anything about that now, I can at least feel some relief by making a video out of my poem on my YouTube channel as the final one I actually intended.

 So here we are.

My inspiration for this poem (August 2022):

The traditions of contemplating entering motherhood as you age would be easier when there are no outside controlling debates about the basics of bodily female freedom. While there exists individual struggles over pregnancy, the overturning of abortion rights in the US perpetuates hesitations, sweeping anyone up in an already difficult decision which is unrelated to the luxury of political and religious debates. 

[Now, if you're interested in seeing this in video form, check it out here.]

My poem:

Clotting Motherhood 

Is the space inside your womb any different

from the clefts between your boobs or buttocks?

In a heatwave, 

the mesh grating cover of the fan is a cage but lets air through—

Whirring.

Whirling.

A spinning wheel is just a part of the carnival

where “neighborly” ring masters continuously 

lash your body indiscriminately—

Another part of you wants to cry—

the part that gets severed by the relentless switchblades

of “co-owners” who assay your private property entirely,

valuating and devaluating them into governable parts, from neck down;

All your flesh is de jure to be violated

while the du jour is to be honored with laments;

Your ears listen to the floss break blood

between the infested enamel—

You twist along the two abutting incisors

until one flips behind the other—

A false syllogism:

All parts are free,

free parts are equal;

Therefore, all parts are equal—but are they all free?

Your sexual organs all nakedly shine as a substrate

however it suits the vacillating human gods;

but just to be implanted or extracted with doubts

sunders your head; your face is stained with Gorgon blood,

hardening from ageless wisdom,

but unable to produce any winged Pegasus;

You age as an empty oyster engulfing the sand

swallowing itself, squeezing its insides

where even the floss can no longer fit—

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