John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Silkworm, and he has work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.
The child is late.
Your entire body is getting on your case –
night agony, morning nausea.
Birds flock to the feeder,
sing the hallelujahs
of eggs so easily laid.
Birth, for them, is suddenly here,
then quickly gone.
You’d willingly sit in a nest if it were that simple.
Sun sweeps the bedroom floor.
You conduct so much energy
that you don’t care anymore
that you’re a swollen blimp
piloted by one determined to stay put.
Two kids from prior years
want you to understand their needs.
Noise is the prominent tool in their trade.
Your husband struggles to make their breakfast.
He’s a protective force cracking at every seam.
Wait a minute, you remind yourself.
There’s a beauty here,
a phoenix will rise from floppy, bloody ashes..
Soon enough, pleasure will oust pain.
The world’s not so cruel
as to condemn you for doing its bidding.